In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails
by NotMarge
Summary: They left her to die. But Massimo will make her live.
1. In the Absence of Light

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this story is mine, all mine I say!

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

In the Absence of Light

* * *

He floated in and out of her vision. Like a guardian angel, if she'd ever believed in such things.

She didn't.

But she did believe in his voice.

She drifted with it, his voice. Speaking in German, in Italian, in American English, as he muttered quietly to himself as he worked.

As he talked to her, encouraging, reassuring her of her continued existence, of her recovery.

_But I don't want to live. I want to die. Let me die. I am hideous, worthless, useless. A freak. Let me die._

He wouldn't.

He numbed her pain as much as he was able. And then he cleaned the bloody, ragged stumps of her severed legs with a liquid fire that she dimly felt through the makeshift anesthesia he had given her.

When she passed out, his melodic susurruses accompanied her through her nightmare hallucinations and remembrances of her grand and final performance.

The men, their faces blurred. The chainsaw, its biting, tearing, grinding teeth. The camera, filming her torture.

The harsh laughter in her ears.

And the pain. So much pain.

All the pain.

She woke in the midst of her agony, her vision blurred and wavering, to find him there. A large needle protruding from one hand.

"It wouldn't do to have you suffer an infection and never share your beauty again, would it?" he murmured comfortingly.

She tried to say, yes, yes, that was exactly what she wanted. To die and be released from this hideous, pain-riddled, shameful existence.

But before she could form a single syllable, she lost consciousness again.

And when she awoke, he was there with a glass of water to soothe her parched throat.

Dark, warm eyes behind small, round framed glasses. A gentle smile that revealed neat, white teeth.

Always there, always reassuring. Always by her side.

Feeding her, spoonful by tiny spoonful, as though she were a baby.

"We must give your body fuel, eh? To heal and beat those bastards at their own game, yes?"

When the fever took her firmly in its cruel, sickening grip and her entire body turned against her, he was there.

Never leaving her, never uttering a word of discontent or frustration. Never furrowing his frown, except in concern for her welfare.

And she knew then, with absolute certainty, that she would survive and live.

Whether she wished to or not.

Because he was simply stronger, more determined, more _willful_, than her injuries ever could be.

And with this newfound knowledge wrapping itself around her like a warm, soothing, suffocating blanket of defenselessness and tentative hope, she fell asleep once more.

And her body, under the watchful care of Massimo Dolcefino, began to heal itself.

* * *

Elsa opened her eyes.

She lay on her back in a narrow bed in a small, cluttered apartment room. Bright sunshine filtered into the space through the clouded, milky window panes.

A handmade quilt covered her body, held her safe and secure.

So that, for just a moment, she might pretend that she was whole and able and well.

And not a legless freak.

"You are awake, cara mia. That is good."

She knew his voice well by now, his dulcet tones a part of the rhythm of her being, humming pleasantly with all the inner workings and strummings that made her live and breathe.

He was there, seated in a chair next to her supine form limp on the bed.

She did not speak to him, only stared.

"Your fever is left you and your legs seem to be beginning to heal cleanly now."

He spoke to her in her native German, save for the 'cara mia'.

"So it appears that you are going to live."

His expression as always was gentle. Tender.

She reached out and slapped his face with all her feeble, trembling strength, feeling the rough stubble of his unshaven cheek beneath her fingers.

A knife of pain shot through her as her wounded stumps twitched, pulling at the stitches in the tender flesh.

"I did not _want_ to live, you bastard! I wanted to _die_! You should have let me _die_!"

What was meant as a shout of defiant rage emitted only as barely an exhalation of breath by one still very ill and weak.

His cheek barely reddened by the force of her weak blow and his eyes did not lose their gentility. But they did gain a touch of steel that frightened her, if only for a moment.

When he spoke, his rumbling voice was unchanged by her violent outburst.

And his eyes riveted upon hers.

"If you tax yourself so again, you may tear the stitches. And I will have to resew them. Which will cause you more pain."

She glared at him, defiant even in her misery.

He ignored her glowering hate that she intended to sear his skull with.

And spoke again, his tone gentle and even.

The constant in her now adrift and unstable life.

"I am going to pick you up now, cara mia. I am going to carry you across this room and out that door."

He gestured vaguely. She did not look away from his hypnotizing gaze.

"If you resist or fight, it will only cause you unnecessary pain and I will still carry you where I want you to go. Do you understand?"

She said nothing, still attempting to challenge him with her eyes and her pursed lips.

He held his station and finally her resolve crumpled.

She nodded just a little.

He bent down, and pulled back the quilt, careful to keep her dignity covered with the robe in which he had draped her when she had first been bought to him by her soldier rescuer. Working his hands carefully under the limp remnants of her legs and around her back, just below her shoulder blades. She wrapped her trembling arms around his neck and laid her weak head on his chest near his collarbone.

He carried her bridal style, walking lightly so as to jar her tender body as little as possible.

Out the open door and onto a small balcony. For an anxiety riddled moment, she caught a fleeting vision of him simply tossing her over the edge and disappearing back inside without a single glance back.

The thought exhilarated her with the freedom of death and the rising fear of never experiencing anything beautiful again.

Instead, he set her down gently onto a lounge chair, placing her amputated legs on a pillow for comfort and covering her robed form with a light blanket.

The day was warm and mild, the perfect temperature for an afternoon tea.

If such was the preferred refreshment.

Which it was most definitely _not_ for her.

No, her preferred drink was a kickback of whatever the hardest thing was lying around.

Anything to make her forget the blackness of her life.

He left her alone in the warm embrace of the sun for a moment, then returned with a glass of yellow liquid and a straw.

He offered it to her silently and she took a tentative sip to appease him.

"Lemonade?"

She was aghast. This was a child's drink at a silly tea time party with teddy bears and cuddle up dolls.

It was ridiculous.

And refreshing.

"Yes. You do not need anything stronger for the time being. Your body is still very weak."

She sat motionless, stubbornly despising everything and everyone around her.

Which was not very hard to do.

Massimo seemed unaffected by it.

He knelt down beside her chair, slightly behind so as not to obscure her view.

"You need sunshine and a taste of bright within you as well, cara mia. To remember that there is a reason to survive. And thrive."

His voice was in her ear, quiet and convincing. And though he no longer touched her, she could feel his breath lightly tickling her ear, her neck.

"If you die, if you lay there and waste away, they will have won completely."

She watched the sun. And the lazily moving, puffy clouds in the bright blue sky.

She listened to him.

"But if you _choose_ to live, if you _choose_ to succeed, then you beat them all."

He left her there for awhile to her own thoughts and returned by himself to the room within.

She remained, feeling the breeze upon her face and the sun on her skin, watching the clouds go by.

* * *

"**In the absence of light, darkness prevails." **

**As far as I can surmise, this is a quote derived from various Buddhist sayings. It is also a quote from 'Hellboy', one of my favorite movies for the humanity exhibited by its 'monsters' Hellboy and Abraham Sapien. And, of course, my professor Broom.**

**Anyway, here's this new story from within the depths of my brain. Don't know how long it will be, but I'm sure Massimo and Elsa will let me know.**

**Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like. :)**


	2. Farewell, My Soldier Boy

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this story is mine, all mine I say!

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Farewell, My Soldier Boy

* * *

"There is a man waiting on the stoop downstairs."

Elsa moved her face from the healing sun and gazed at Massimo.

His eyes revealed nothing.

Finally, she spoke and her words were harsh and ugly, even to her ears.

"How wonderful for him to be able to move so independently."

Massimo did not acknowledge her biting, self-pitying statement. He simply removed his round eyeglasses and began cleaning them calmly with a small cloth.

Elsa decided she didn't care that he wasn't rising to her bitter hate. She would chew upon all by herself as she sat in the sun.

Then he spoke again.

"It's, uh, it's the man who brought you to me."

Her soldier boy. The one who had come to her for a little something special.

The one who had fallen in love with his whore.

And she was back there, in those hidden rooms. Wearing her skin tight leathers and her tiny veil.

Never letting any of them touch her, no, not one bit.

And dominating them, pushing the limits, seeing their ecstasy, seeing their pain.

Knowing she was the cause of it all made her sick.

And grimly satisfied.

The Watchers behind her, never speaking, never moving.

Like ghouls, masked demons bearing witness with eager, hungry eyes from the pits of foulest hell.

_All I ever wanted to be was famous, a star. Something glamourous. Not that. Not wallowing in filth._

And that boy, that soldier boy. The one who had thanked her for making him sit on a toilet seat lined with rusty, sharpened nails.

The one who had followed her everywhere thereafter.

The one who rescued her after the monsters had left her all alone.

The one who should have left her to die.

"Send him away," she replied tonelessly.

Massimo hesitated before speaking.

"He has come back every day for a month inquiring as to your recovery and condition."

He, her self-sadistic soldier boy, was part of her past. A past she could never regain, even if she wanted to.

Which she did not.

He was a reminder of her ugliness, of her shame, of her humiliation.

She never wanted to see him again, never wanted to think of him again.

She chewed her lower lip and stared out at the afternoon sky.

Puffy white clouds lay before her.

She had never noticed them before. She had been busy looking down upon the twisted dredges of society to ever look up and see anything more.

Beyond the puffy clouds were darker, thicker, heavier clouds, promising downpours of rain to block out her healing sunlight.

And she made a decision.

"Tell him I died."

Massimo blinked in surprise.

"What?"

She refused to look at him.

"I do not want to see him. Ever again. I do not want him to return."

Massimo was silent.

"So tell him I died. An infection or something. Or tell him I threw myself off the roof in shame. I don't care. Make him go away, Massimo. Make him leave."

The tall man with his salt and pepper hair slowly placed his glasses back on his face and stood quiet for a moment.

"As you wish, cara mia."

* * *

When he returned, she was sipping her lemonade.

No tears had escaped her eyes and they were dry and clear once again.

"I told him died in your sleep from a sudden infection."

She did not reply.

"I told him your end was peaceful."

She did not look at him.

"I thanked him for trying to save you."

She sipped her lemonade.

"He asked me where you were to be buried and I told him your body was cremated."

And then she finally did look at him with empty, hollow eyes as he spoke his final words.

"He is gone."

She nodded and looked out again at the picturesque sky.

After standing quietly next to her for a span of time, sharing her vista, Massimo left her alone to herself.

She was glad.

She knew then that he was a better person than she.

And part of her hated him for it.

* * *

Elsa watched the people below from her perch up above.

They did not see her. They were unaware of her presence, her existence.

They moved to and fro, appearing from she knew not where, heading toward she knew not where.

Some were dressed quite shabbily and some appeared a bit more well to do.

But on they walked, _walked_, while she could do nothing but sit and watch them pass by on their way to their lives.

Taking no notice of her at all.

She was dead to the world, to everyone.

Even to herself.

She watched them attend to their lives, unaware of her ongoing misery and suffering.

And she hated them.

She could drop clay pots down upon them, breaking their skulls open and they'd never know she was there.

She wanted to.

She _hated_ them.

They could walk and she could not.

They could run and she could not.

They could dance and she could not.

They could love and she could not.

She was a deformed, crippled creature and they were not.

And she hated them with a fury so black it nearly made her skin smoke with the intensity of it.

Massimo was within, at work at his table.

If she called out to him, even in a whisper voice, he would hear and immediately come to her side, ready to serve.

His unwavering patience seemed beyond human to her.

And she remembered when she had first awoken on the table, cold and drained and trembling in her new found shame.

She remembered their exchange.

_I will never be beautiful again. _

_But your legs will be beautiful._

Legs.

He was making her legs, carving them out slowly, meticulously, out of blocks of wood. Chipping away little by little.

She scoffed inwardly.

They barely resembled legs at all, only perhaps so to a blind man with drunk heart.

But she could not deny, even to herself, the meek, tentative rise of hope beginning to take root in her.

He making her legs.

He was going to teach her to walk.

He was going to give her beauty again.

And freedom.

And life.

She scoffed again, wishing for a cigarette, wishing for a drink, wishing for anything but what she had.

And thought.

He was going to make her legs.

So he said.

* * *

**Oh my fantastic readers, I can't express how happy it makes me to see you willing to give this story a try! Thank you so much! :D**

**Thanks especially to brigid1318, Jurana Keri, MaverickPaxaPunch, JavierCervantes, Gracious Guest, and mystery guest for reviewing this new tale.**

**Thanks to YellowBrickQueen and lalaleigh for adding your support as well.**

**And thank you, silent readers. I hope you enjoy this too. :)**


	3. Dead of Night

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this story is mine, all mine I say!

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Dead of Night

* * *

It took months for her body to heal properly.

Long, tedious, draining months.

Every day the sun shone, Massimo carried her onto the balcony and laid her in the warm, healing sun.

He rubbed ointment on her stumps and molded the skin, smoothing it down.

His broad, strong hands careful and as gentle as possible.

Sometimes the pressure he set against them helped, sometimes it did not.

Tender as her healing flesh was, she gritted her teeth, ground them together.

And made no noise at all to betray her discomfort.

For she knew it was necessary.

And that he was doing his best not to hurt her.

He talked to her.

About anything. About everything.

About his childhood.

"When I was a young boy in Italy, my mother was a cook for a man who ran a large vineyard. After my chores were done every day, I would roam the countryside. Climbing trees as high I could to reach Heavens, in search of angels. I didn't know yet they walked the Earth disguised as people."

And he would smile at her as she wondered how, with all she'd done, he would think her an angel.

But then again, she told him nearly nothing of herself, past or present.

For she had no lovely stories to tell of the dark, sordid past.

And her present was full of him so that she need tell him nothing at all.

Full of him.

And her pain.

* * *

Her legs.

She could sometimes feel her legs.

The legs that were no longer there.

They itched.

They itched and burned and tried to move.

The flesh below the knees that those cruel, horrible men had torn off her.

The mutilated flesh lingered.

And made think she was crazy.

Sometimes she barely caught herself as she attempted to get up and walk on legs that were no longer there.

Massimo had to catch her once in his strong arms.

"Where do you think you are going, cara mia?" he queried gently.

And she had bite her lip to keep from bursting into tears all over again.

Sometimes her legs screamed in the long hours of the night.

And she lay awake, trying not to scream with them.

He never slept, that she could see. She always slept before he did.

And so, as she lay in the dark, attempting to stifle her whimpers and moans of pain, concentrating on the filtering light of the streetlamp coming in through the window, he moved silently to her side.

His voice, so soft, so caring, like honey poured over her searing agony.

"What troubles you so, cara mia?"

If she could have heard its mellifluousness over the sound of her own screaming legs.

She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, unwilling to admit her weakness, even in the darkness.

"Please, please, my Elsa, please tell me."

She trembled, she gasped a sob, struggled within herself and fell completely apart.

Reaching out a clawing hand, she flailed at his shirt.

"M-my l-legs," she hissed in a terrified whisper. "They are screaming! They hurt so!"

He reached out a gentle hand and soothed down her hair in the dark.

"Your legs are not there, cara mia. They are gone. It is phantom pain."

He wasn't telling her she was crazy. He wasn't being cruel.

But she sobbed all the harder just the same.

"Please, please! Kill me! I cannot take this misery! It will drive me mad! Kill me!"

Massimo leaned closer to her, shushing her declarations in his honeyed-amber voice.

"No, no, cara mia. You must live. You must survive. So that you may see the sun in the morning."

He sat with her as she cried and trembled and tore at the bedding.

His hands, she scratched them here and there in her desperation, but he did not make mention of it at all.

And when she had worn herself down to exhaustion, he kissed her frail hands and rose to leave.

Panic welled in her that the demons in her legs would come back stronger when she was alone and she cried out in abject fear.

"No! Please, no! Do not leave me! Stay! Please! I will die if you go!"

He hesitated and she choked down another sob of despair.

Finally he moved to the chair again but she tugged him toward her.

"No, please. Here. Here. With me. Please. With me."

He paused again, then smiled kindly in the darkness.

"Of course, cara mia."

And lay carefully down on the bed with her.

She lay her head down on his chest and he cradled it in one hand. She was absolutely vulnerable as she had never dared with any other man she had ever known.

His arms enveloped her, strong and warm, holding her close.

She lay curled into his side, shaking and trembling, feeling his warmth and strength and she felt as safe in this world as she could ever hope to be.

They lay still and she felt her clenched body begin to slowly relax.

Finally, in a relieved, barely audible whisper, she spoke.

"Thank you, Massimo."

Her heart rate slowed down, her blood pressure lowered. Her temperature warmed with his body heat.

And sleep reached out toward her, stroking her senses with tendrils almost as gentle as Massimo's embrace. Dampening her still itching legs with serenity.

"Of course, cara mia."

* * *

Just as Massimo had promised, the sun arrived that morning to welcome her to the land of the living.

And warm her healing legs.

"You saved me last night, you know," she confessed almost shyly as she reclined on the balcony.

She felt different, hollow, as if she were all out of energy to hide whatever her new self was from him.

He shook his head diffidently as he continued to rub ointment onto her now smoothing stump scars.

"No, no, cara mia. I did nothing of importance."

She set down her plate of fruit and reached out.

Touched his hairy forearm, where the skin lay exposed, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

"No, Massimo. I would have crawled out of bed and flung myself off this balcony last night had you not intervened and soothed my pain."

He looked her then, his expression momentarily unguarded.

And she saw that he loved her deeply.

Deeply and completely.

And she, in her self-doubt and uncertainty, looked away and said nothing.

* * *

**Thanks to brigid1318, Sailor Pandabear, and Gracious Guest for your reviews.**

**It won't always be pitiful and sad, I promise. This is a love story after all and those have happiness too. :)**


	4. At the End of the Tunnel

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Or wooden legs.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

At the End of the Tunnel

* * *

It was raining outside.

She was inside, watching Massimo as he worked to make her new legs.

There were two parts to each prosthetic, the calf section and the foot attachment. Each calf section had a hollow groove in which to fit a healed stump. Each foot section had crafted toes, even nails.

He sculpted with great care, slowly shaping and molding each block of wood into a beautiful, shapely, female leg.

"How do you know how to do that?" she asked, unable to stem her rising curiosity. "Make new limbs out of blocks of wood?"

He leaned closer to the piece, inspecting a flaw apparent only to him. When he spoke, his tone resonated pleasantly within her marrow, as it always did.

"I apprenticed as a carpenter in Italy to a man named Collodi. He taught me patience and dedication for the craft."

Massimo smiled at the distant memory. Elsa watched him, captivated.

"When I was older, World War I's grenades had taken countless soldiers' limbs as recompense for their willingness to serve their country. I traveled my homeland, creating new ones for them so that they may not have to feel less than whole."

He continued his work, blowing gently on a fresh cut in the wood to chase away lingering dust.

"Later, I came here to Germany in the hopes of sculpting movie props for the cinema. I wanted to bring magic to the silver screen."

Pausing, he inspected a foot attachment carefully. Then ghosted a warm smile.

"And here I have found you, cara mia. My greatest challenge. And my greatest light."

Elsa shook her head, looking down and swiping at tears that suddenly swelled unbidden in her eyes.

"No, it is you who are great," she replied quietly. "To see potential and make such wonderful creations out of nothing at all."

Massimo glanced momentarily at her, the corners of his mouth lifted upward again. Then he returned to his work.

"I am only a simple carpenter."

He continued to work slowly, as an artist in love with his craft.

And his muse.

It fascinated her when he worked. He moved his hands with delicacy of a surgeon, never making more than small, tiny cuts in the wood. Content, it seemed, to pore over the most minute details that Elsa herself would never have thought to consider.

He talked to himself occasionally, muttering in concentration on his work with all of devotion of a holy Tibetan monk. Muttered in his native Italian, which she didn't understand, her native German, and American English, which she only understood a few words of from movies.

And she found her voice again.

"And why do you do that?" she asked him, not unkindly. "Speak in different languages when you talk to yourself?"

He smiled at this new inquiry of hers, neither breaking eye contact with the wood nor the rhythm in which he moved to craft it.

She waited, watching. She had learned over the weeks that he often considered his words carefully before speaking and it would do no good to pressure him to speak before he chose to.

The rain pattered gently outside on the balcony. The hands of the man before her and his tools made quiet scraping sounds on the wood that would one day be her new legs.

"Because different words taste better in different tongues."

She tilted her head a little, furrowing her brow at his strange response.

He broke away from his work, looking up mischievously at her from over his glasses.

"And I very much enjoy cursing in American English."

Almost against her will, Elsa's somber countenance broke into an amused smirk.

Then Massimo resumed his work, speaking no more.

And she watched him, wondering at his dedication and constancy.

And the hollowness of her own soul.

* * *

He loved her when she was sleeping.

He loved her when she was awake.

He loved her when she cried.

He loved her when she smiled.

He loved her when bleak despondency overwhelmed her and made her listless.

He loved her when the sun lit her face and made it translucent with life.

He loved her when she bathed her ravaged skin. When he carried her to the old claw foot tub draped in a towel and lay her within, choosing not to look when she slipped the wet cloth to the floor and her bare body lay exposed.

She asked him once, _why do you do not look upon me? Do you see now that I am an ugly, hideous monster? As I told you I was?_

And he, turned half away, stood silent for a moment. And then answered her patiently, _no, cara mia, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon. I do not look out of respect for you_.

And she did not know what to say. No man in her life had ever treated her with respect and dignity.

Then he simply looked straight into her eyes and nowhere else.

And smiled.

And she did not ask him again.

Massimo Dolcefino simply loved her.

In his waking. In his sleeping. He loved her.

And never spoke a word of it to her at all.

* * *

She was asleep when he brought her his finest gift, lost in a dream of walking on her strong, lovely legs.

In the dream, as she walked, they began disintegrate, as sugar on wet pavement. She tried to move faster. Toward the safety of a nearby rotted tree. Only to find herself moving ever more slowly, as though slogging through curdled molasses.

In her dream, she wept and cried, she screamed and she cursed.

And step by step, she lost her legs once more.

Collapsing forward onto the stumps, ragged and bleeding, just below her knees.

Massimo knew nothing of this as he approached her bedside.

He only knew he wished for her to awaken to new and beautiful legs.

And so he worked quickly, quietly, in an effort to attach them before she fully awoke.

So that when she opened her eyes, it would be to a living fairy tale of the wrongly imprisoned queen. Set free from her terrible bondage by a powerful wizard.

Or a beautiful woman with no legs granted the ability to walk once more.

By the simple carpenter who loved her.

Elsa stirred, feeling gentle tugs and movements on her healed stumps.

He was there, Massimo, hovering near her, all his attention focused on attaching the ties and securing her stumps comfortably in the padded grooves of the wooden supports.

His face was set with concentration yet slightly flushed with excitement and pride at the completed masterpiece.

He ran his fingers lightly upon the pieces, double checking everything once over to make sure all was properly in place.

She blinked the sleep away from her mind and rose slowly to see what Massimo Dolcefino had done.

Legs. She had legs.

And they were beautiful.

Made of rich, striated wood which the carpenter had carefully, shaped, sanded, and polished to bring forth the luster and shine and perfection of his newest creation.

She stared at them in shock and disbelief.

Legs. She had legs.

Stunned, she reached out with a numb, shaking hand and felt them. The wood was so smooth, so expertly crafted.

And then he gathered up a pair of pale ladies' stockings and carefully rolled them up on over her new wooden legs.

"Let go of what you know," he murmured reassuringly to her. "And let my legs carry you."

She looked at him then.

His handsome face was alight with joy and anticipation. He looked as giddy as a schoolboy, more youthful and hopeful than she had ever seen him before.

She looked back and forth between her carpenter savior and her new, beautiful, wooden legs.

A smile broke across her face, chasing away the gloom and depression she'd held within for so long, even before the traumatic event.

Decades of misery and grim stoicism fell away from her as she gazed upon what she had been given.

A good, gentle man who selflessly loved her.

And legs with which she could walk.

They both made her feel complete.

"They are yours, cara mia," he whispered. "Though you were beautiful before without them."

And she flung her arms around his neck as the tears of happiness began to stream down her face.

* * *

**Yes, this last section is actually a part of the episode 'Blood Bath'. Of course I added to it. Just a little. ;)**

**Carlo Collodi is actually the penname of the creator of Pinocchio. So I stole his last name for Massimo's mentor. And now I've confessed to my crime. ;)**

**Thanks to brigid1318, Javier Cervantes, GG (oh aren't you even cuter now, Gracious Guest!), YellowBrickQueen, NewGirl25, my mystery guest, MaverickPaxAPunch, and Queen-of-candyland for your encouraging reviews.**

**Thanks also to Devoured By Solitude (oh gosh, sweetie, do you need a hug or a cuddle or something?!) for adding your support to this tale.**


	5. First of Many

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Or wooden legs.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

The First of Many

* * *

When she finally let go of Massimo's neck, Elsa wiped her tears away.

And resumed staring in astonished wonder at her new legs and feet, now modestly stockinged below her healed stumps.

Massimo gazed at her, enjoyed her amazement for a moment longer. Then he made a 'wait' gesture with one hand and reached under the bed for what he had concealed there days before as she slept.

A new pair of ladies' dress shoes. They were red, with three inch, solid heels. The leather was stylishly cut in a zigzag pattern across the top and three buckles waited to secure them to their new owner.

They were simple and attractive.

And would never pinch her feet.

Because her feet were now wooden.

"Oh, Massimo, they are lovely!" she exclaimed in wonder.

And paused then, glancing furtively around at the small, cluttered dwelling.

Her tone was a jest when she spoke. Mostly.

"What other women's apparel do you have stashed away around here?"

He chuckled at her as he secured the shoes on her new feet.

"This is the entirety of my collection, cara mia. And I would be amiss not to say that the ladies who owned the boutique were most intrigued by me."

He withdrew his hands then and she looked.

_They look . . . real. They look like feet. They look like _my_ feet._

And she smiled still further.

At the shoes. At her feet. At him.

And then Massimo spoke.

"And now, cara mia, it is time for you to walk."

At these new words, Elsa felt a mixture of emotions swirl within her.

Walk?

Her?

She had not walked in so long.

And she, she felt . . . she felt . . .

Exultation that she could once again move on her own two legs.

Trepidation that she would fail.

And gratefulness to even be able to consider it at all.

She must have looked stricken and fearful because Massimo gifted her with his calm smile once again and offered her his hands.

"Have no fear, Elsa. I will hold you up."

She looked into his eyes and saw that he would.

So she nodded and he helped her position her body on the edge of the bed and place her new feet in her new red shoes in a stable position on the floor.

And there she sat.

Wanting to rise and walk.

Desiring it deeply.

And fearing she was not ready.

He waited patiently for her to gather her courage.

And then waited some more.

Finally, she took a deep breath and began to tremulously rise.

He took most of her weight, releasing her hands and wrapping his arms protectively around her. She, in turn, clutched his shoulders with nervous hands and pushed her stumps against the padded cushions of her wooden legs.

And gasped as the pressure set in on her stumps. He took more of her weight, almost all of it, as her body left the bed and became completely vertical for the first time in months.

Massimo held her in his arms and she stood, Elsa, on her own two legs. The legs Massimo Dolcefino had created just for her.

Her mouth hung open in a shocked, disbelieving expression. Not the coy, demure poise of a refined lady. Or the calculating, pretentious sneer of a dominatrix whore.

Just a woman. Granted a most miraculous gift.

The gift of legs.

And walking.

"There, cara mia. You are standing now."

He slowly relinquished her weight to her, little by little so that she could truly experience the feeling of standing on her new wooden legs.

He kept his hands around her waist, balancing her, ready to catch her in an instant if she lost her footing. He also peered deep into her face to see her reaction to her legs.

He wanted to see her anger and misery melt away like frost before the spring sun.

He wanted see her let go of her sorrow and be free.

But Elsa stood very silent and rigid and tight.

She was standing, finally standing.

She knew it was mostly him enabling her to do so. She knew she was weak. She knew she was unbalanced and uncoordinated.

And she didn't care.

Because she was standing.

And Massimo wanted her to have more.

"Come, to the sunlight, Elsa. To the world."

He wanted her to walk to the balcony.

"N-n-no," she stammered in sudden fear. "It is so far away! And . . . I will fall over the edge!"

He did not reprimand her for her lack of faith in him. He did not invalidate her feelings by telling her not to be afraid.

Massimo simply held her up in his arms and encouraged her.

"To the door then, yes? We will dance it. Together."

He held her close to him for her security and set his back to their destination.

And counted in his low, melodic rumble.

"Uno . . . due . . . tre."

He moved his left leg back a small step and she slid her right leg forward slightly, feeling cumbersome and heavy and ungainly with nearly no equilibrium at all.

Except for that given to her by the man with the sketches of salt in his pepper hair holding her up.

"Very good, Elsa," he murmured, a gentle smile upon his face. "Again."

This time he moved his right leg back and she followed with her clumsy left leg.

She kept her eyes on him, feeling slightly dizzy, never daring to look around, never daring to glance away from his dark, warm eyes.

And so it was that they made their way across the space together, slowly, so slowly. Her uncertain and hesitant. And him, confident and calm, never looking away from her.

Her face was strained and taut with concentration and anxiety that she might fall.

It almost appeared that she was glaring at him, though she was not.

But when she felt warmth on her arm, she blinked heavily, as if returning from a dream, and looked around.

They were standing in a shaft of sunlight.

In the doorway to the balcony.

And the entire world.

Massimo rotated them slowly so that she could turn her head and look out at the vista before them.

When she did, she beheld the grey, dull world.

Exactly the same.

Only now awash with beauty and promise.

And then another miracle happened.

She began to giggle, deep in throat. Giggle like a little girl in the sunlit field chasing brightly colored butterflies flitting to and fro.

She released a shaking hand from his shoulder, in danger of losing her balance completely, and clamped it over her mouth in an effort to stifle her laughter.

It did not work.

Elsa stood, her blond hair a curled mess, Massimo's white button up shirt hanging halfway to her knees, and his maroon cardigan hanging half off her shoulder. Fancy red shoes strapped to a pair of fake, wooden legs swathed in pale stockings.

And she giggled.

In rapture and delight.

And Massimo Dolcefino, the simple carpenter, beheld the face of an angel.

An angel, freed from her Earthly shackles, flying on zephyrs of lightest air up toward the open expanse of Heaven.

And it was he, he, who held her up and made it possible.

He, in his love and devotion and constancy, had made it so.

* * *

**Okay, hope this wasn't _too_ cheesy but I couldn't resist. And hey, Elsa isn't the shrew here that she is later and they really deserve some sweetness in my opinion. ;D**

**So thanks to brigid1318, MaverickPaxaPunch, GG, my mystery guest, and Foreverglfan88 for your enthusiastic reviews!**


	6. Love and Hate

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Or Wooden Legs

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Love and Hate

* * *

"I have not been entirely truthful with you, cara mia."

Elsa looked away from the lovely vista to the man who had granted her legs.

"I do have another item you might find interest in."

He intrigued her further with his mysterious proclamation and the gleam in his eyes.

Massimo then carefully lowered her into a chair near the open door and turned away to a standing bureau.

She sat, still in shock, admiring her new legs.

And realizing, perhaps because she had been walking now after all this time, that she was sorely bereft of clothing. Only Massimo's shirt and the set of undergarments she had been wearing when brought to him.

_What inappropriate conduct_, she mused with a sardonic smirk. _And how very unfair to a gentleman such as he._

She huffed at her ridiculous musing.

_Of course, it cannot be so very difficult. Any man not depraved could surely find no desire in a legless cripple._

And Massimo Dolcefino was certainly not depraved.

Although he did appear to be somewhat of a connoisseur of women's clothing.

Because he had just turned back to her, holding forth a dress.

It was soft yellow, delicately arrayed with muted, indigo flowers and green, twisting vines and leaves. With a rounded collar and gently tied loose elbow sleeves, the lightly fitted v-cut bodice was seamed to demurely compliment the wearer's slender midsection. From there, it flared slightly, naturally, to just below the knee.

It was not the revealing, forbidding, darkly sensual attire of a dark room dominatrix whore.

It was not the dowdy, drab, sack dress of a poor cripple.

It was the simple, casual, soft garment of a stylish lady.

And Elsa wanted to wear it badly.

If she wore it and spun slowly, the hem would flutter out in an lovely twirl.

_I _must_ learn to walk gracefully and move in such a way that it will be beautiful on me._

Massimo knelt before her, offering her the garment, yet another gift from this man who continued to surprise her.

"I thought it might be more fitting to a lady than my old work shirt," he surmised coolly.

She laughed then, lightly, and clapped her hands in delight.

"Oh, it is perfect," she praised, reaching out to touch the soft fabric.

She wanted it badly, she did. But it was not her. She was no lady. She was, had been, a dominatrix whore who made men thank her for their erotic agony.

Now she was a crippled, pathetic woman, unable to walk without prosthetics.

Then Elsa looked into the warm brown eyes of the man before her.

And thought she might be able to change.

Into whatever and whomever she wanted to be.

If she would let herself.

So she took the dress and the slip discreetly placed inside it.

It fit perfectly.

And she decided she would keep it.

And learn to walk gracefully in it.

* * *

"Happy birthday, cara mia."

He held out a white rose to her as she rested in her balcony seat in her new dress, soaking the new morning sun up into her body in preparation for the day's walking exercises. Her wooden legs sat beside her at the ready.

After a moment of confusion, she clucked her tongue at him in light derision.

"It is not my birthday, silly man. And to say such things brings bad luck."

_Of course, there is not much worse luck than having one's legs sawn off._

She shuddered a little, even as Massimo continued to offer her the rose with a smile.

"Yes, it is, my dear Elsa."

She shook her head in reproach.

"No, Massimo. I am forty-one years old and my birthday is in the autumn. When the leaves wither and die."

He knelt by her chair, his face patient and kind. She felt drawn to him, as she always did whenever he seemed to be ready to share some secret knowledge with her.

"No, cara mia, you misunderstand. You are freshly reborn now into this world with your new legs and your new sense of hope."

She fought to control the smile drifting its way onto her face.

Reached out and carefully took the rose from him.

The green stem had been sheared smooth of thorns. She held it to her face and inhaled its lovely aroma.

"So be it, then. If it pleases you."

And his smile widened like a happy boy.

"It does."

And she thought she might love Massimo Dolcefino.

* * *

She _hated_ Massimo Dolcefino.

"Come, cara mia. Just a bit further."

Her breath hissed most unladylike between her clenched teeth.

"No! I can't!" she practically growled at him. "It hurts too much! I am tired!"

Every day, every single day, she struggled to walk. She practiced and rested. And practiced and rested.

Her stumps ached, her thigh muscles ached.

The wooden legs were as light as Massimo could possibly make them.

And at the end of the day, when all of her energies were delepted, they were heavier and clunkier than ever before.

And she hated him.

His face remained smooth, expressionless, as it did so often when she struggled for control of her temper.

"You must, cara mia. You must continue to walk and improve and gain strength so that you may be independent and free. Of independence from anyone, including me."

Her anger burned hotter, fueled by the aching in her amputated legs.

"So you push me so hard in hopes that I will heal and leave you in peace?!"

She glimpsed the hurt in his eyes before he shut it away from her once more.

"No, Elsa, of course not. I only want you to be able to choose how to live your life. You must be free to do as you wish. Where you wish. And with whom you wish."

And she felt guilty then. And bitter. And angry.

"Are you a _woman_ now that you are so _needy_ for affections and sulk about pouting for reassurances that your companion will always be there to _coddle_ and pet you?!"

She knew she was being unfair, that she was pushing him too far. That she was hurting him for no reason other than to push away her own pain and fears.

And that she mulishly didn't care.

Frustration and anger churned in his dark eyes and she felt a flash of fear that he would retaliate against her.

And she, in her weakness, would not be able to stop him.

That he would be like her father after all. The military officer who would casually bend his wife over knee behind closed doors and spank her black and blue for some believed slight or insolence. And her mother would never make a sound or shed a tear until he was away.

The shame, the hidden misery in her mother's eyes when he looked through her and went out with his much younger mistress, leaving her at home to listlessly pick at her embroidery or simply sit at the window and wait for him to return, smelling of another woman's perfume and wearing another woman's lipstick on his collar.

Would Massimo be just like all the others, given enough time?

And then Elsa's attention was redirected as the ever patient and ever long-suffering carpenter let go of her viscious verbal attack and insisted that she continue to move. Only to the chair across the room and then she could rest and regain her strength.

And she ground her teeth together in fury.

And walked.

* * *

**Whew, being a big girl is tough, huh? But it'll get better. And at least there's roses, right? And as a funny, the alternate name of this chapter is 'Walking Sucks'. XD**

**If you'd like to see the dress Massimo gave to Elsa, then Google Images '09007614 Dress womens 1930s cream blue floral cotton, C38 W29'. And if you don't wanna, that's cool too. :)**

**So thanks to brigid1318, Queen-of-candyland, Jurana Keri, Foreverglfan88, YellowBrickQueen, MaverickPaxaPunch, GG, and 8Girls8Boys for your encouraging reviews. You all rock! **


	7. Selflessness and Forgiveness

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Selflessness and Forgiveness

* * *

He was changing her.

Massimo Dolcefino was changing her. From the cold, stoic, shrew of a woman she had created herself to be for her own survival, into something else.

A lighter, warmer, more optimistic creature who could see the potential for beauty and hope in the darkest of places.

He wasn't changing her by force, by seclusion, by guilt or obligation.

He was changing her by giving her the opportunity to become cleaned out, throw away her old life, her old presumptions about herself, her old barriers.

And he did it by simply being him.

And presenting her with new legs.

And solace when she needed it, companionship when she did not.

Time.

He gave her time.

To breathe.

To think.

And decide who she wanted to be, visualize it in her mind so that she could make it so.

It also helped that every day, rain or shine, harmony or strife, he presented her with a flower.

A rose or lily or a tulip. Some such lovely perennial, just for her.

And a smile.

* * *

"You love me, Massimo."

It was a statement, not a question.

He did not blink or shy away.

And he did not answer immediately.

Until he did.

"Yes."

They were on the balcony. Elsa had removed her wooden legs and now her stumps lay warming in the sun. She had been walking earlier and now they ached and were tired.

But she was growing stronger. More sure and confident.

Of her walking.

And of him.

"Why do you not pursue me?"

It was an honest, simple question.

He stood, turned half away from her, hands lightly on the railing, looking out at the clouds.

He was quiet so long she did not think he would respond. But after a few moments, he did.

"Because I do not want you to think I believe you owe me for your legs. Or your life."

She huffed and leaned forward, strongly adamant in her words.

"But I do! Without your care, I would be dead. From blood loss or infection. Or bitterness and despair."

He did not respond. She leaned back once more in relaxation.

"But that is not what I would think if you did."

He looked at her and she could see his desire to openly love her.

And his sincere reservation to do so.

"And what would you think, cara mia?"

She was struck dumb suddenly, the words clenching and struggling in her throat.

Words she wanted to stay. And hesitated to nonetheless.

"I would think . . . I would think . . . I would think I was a most fortunate woman to be desired by a man such as you."

And she, a grown, mature woman, looked up at him, feeling for all the world like a trembling school girl in her first bouts of love.

And he smiled.

And she thought she had never felt so happy.

* * *

Another day. Another bout of exercise. Another rest from her exhaustion.

And another question.

"Where did you learn such selflessness, Massimo? It was not here in Germany, surely."

They shared derisive smiles at the droll, and quite accurate, observation.

"No, no, not here," he agreed aloud. "I learned it in my homeland of Italy."

His eyes grew soft and faraway.

"My father loved my mother every day of his life. She was a cook for a man who owned a vineyard, as I have told you before. And my father was a worker and harvester there as well. They raised seven children together in our small cottage. And even when they argued, they never laid a hand on one another in anger. Most of the time, our cottage was filled with laughter and love."

He stopped and chuckled before continuing.

"Although once my mother, she did empty an entire wash pan of dirty dishwater on him for slapping her on her bottom in tease. She told him he needed some, how do you say, 'cooling off'."

They laughed together, though Elsa could only imagine her own father's rage and awful reaction if her mother had committed the same act, even in the same lighthearted manner.

"They were healthy and happy together all their lives," Massimo's smile faded away, leaving him solemn and grim. "Until she was stricken with what we now call a stroke. She was never the same afterward and required constant care and attention."

He was quiet for a moment, lost in the past. Then he continued.

"He tended to her needs without compliant. Even when she cried and wailed and did not know him, he loved her."

"One day she woke up clear and bright. She told him she wanted to go for a walk together in the vineyard and see the morning sunrise. I was the youngest, so he immediately sent me to run and tell the foreman of his need and took her on what was to be their last walk together in this world."

Massimo's voice had dropped to barely a whisper and Elsa had to strain to hear the reminder of his tale.

"My father told the story many times over. He said that as they walked, she told him she would die soon. And when she did, she would wait for him along the path to the Gates of Heaven. She would wait as long as need be until he passed over as well. So that they might walk in together and never be separated again."

Elsa touched her trembling fingertips to her lips and held them there.

"The sun rose and touched her face with caress of God's own angels. She shuddered then and sank to the ground with my father beside her. She died, with a smile on her face and her hands entwined in his."

Massimo removed his round glasses and wiped at his brimming eyes.

"She was buried on the land where the sunlight touched her. And my father visited her every day to speak to her and tell her of his news. He lived for ten more years after that. He still laughed and he still loved because he said he knew she was watching him and waiting for him along the Path."

He looked up at her, his smile tender.

"So that is where I learned to be who I am, cara mia."

And she did not know what to say.

* * *

It was night this time when she asked yet another question of him.

They were dancing, slowly dancing in the dim lighting of the apartment. Quiet, Italian music played in the background.

The dancing was motivation for her to continue moving when she grew weary at the end of the day, when her legs grew tired and her stumps ached.

"Have you never been married, Massimo? Have you no children?"

He smiled at her, one hand gentle on the small of her back, the other curled around hers on his chest.

"No," he replied simply. "My life has blessed me with neither a companion nor children."

She thought she understood.

Time. There was always more time to be had. Until there was none at all.

She had never desired to be married, not after watching her father dominate and abuse her mother.

She had desired men of course, the carnal need was strong in her. At first.

She had engaged in trysts, finding out early that men could be controlled and manipulated with sex. Like mindless beasts.

And her father's military compatriots had always been most interested to sniff out fresh, young meat to sample and devour.

She hadn't meant to become a dominatrix whore.

She had meant to save her money, escape her father's house and escape to the stage, where she could shine and be brilliant and beautiful and ethereal and admired and loved by all.

From a safe distance.

And so she had, for a while, enjoyed working behind the scenes in theater, learning the craft, working some experienced actors and actresses and dreaming of the bright lights and applause.

And then the First World War had damaged German entertainment industry and the crippled entity was reluctant to take the time to hone and polish her raw talent.

And so she taken her work where she could.

Her beauty, her flare for the dramatic, and her willingness to do anything caught the attention of the most unsavory men she had ever laid eyes on.

They had promised her fame. They had promised her fortune. They had promised her immortality.

In an effort to in the long run become a star, and in the short run escape her father's house for good, Elsa had eventually sold herself to the dredges of society.

And little by little, she had lost sight of who she wanted to be, who she was working to become.

She had traded herself away, trick by trick, never letting them touch her, but blemishing and poisoning her soul a piece at a time nevertheless.

Until she was nothing.

An empty, barren vixen of a woman.

Who felt nothing at all but disgust and disdain for the entire world and everyone in it.

And now that person was dead. Dead to the them all.

And to herself.

And now, hidden away in Massimo Dolcefino's two room apartment, learning to walk and learning to breathe and learning to love, she felt she might be able to reinvent herself as someone else.

A new Elsa.

An Elsa that could be beautiful on the inside and outside.

An Elsa that could feel pride and satisfaction in her existence.

An Elsa that Massimo would be proud to love.

And love him in return.

Elsa laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Massimo rested his cheek softly on the top of her head.

And they continued to dance.

* * *

**Hello, sweeties! I hope you've enjoyed the story so far; I've sure enjoyed writing it. I'll be taking a break during the week here because I've got to go back to work now that all the ice is gone. The sweet, little kiddies need somebody nice to teach 'em, you know. ;)**

**They'll be returning soon, Massimo Dolcefino and Elsa (have you noticed I've not called her 'Mars'? There's a reason for that, make no mistake.) And me, of course, trying to tell their story to the best of my ability. **

**Thanks to brigid1318, GG (I know, me too), Jessicalangefan**, **YellowBrickQueen, MaverickPaxaPunch, and Foreverglfan88 for keeping up with my overflow of words and graciously reviewing. **

**See you all later! :D**


	8. Stepping Out

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Stepping Out

* * *

She strode down the street, confident, relaxed, and full of purpose.

She was going to the market to procure some edibles for their evening meal. It was to be a very special occasion indeed.

The cloudless day marked the one year anniversary of the day Massimo Dolcefino had gifted her with legs.

Wooden legs.

The legs on which she now walked.

As she strode with graceful step, Elsa allowed her thoughts to ramble through the last several months of her budding freedom.

* * *

She had moved slowly, carefully, through his cozy dwelling over and over again. Walking on her new wooden legs. Exploring his modest collection of books, examining his well-worn and well-used tools and carpentry sundries in the quiet, dusty light of his apartment.

Touching everything. Curious and interested in all of it.

Because it was his.

She did not know the names of all of his carpentry trappings, nor did she ask.

It all seemed so mystical and intriguing to her and for some reason she could not fathom, she wished for it to remain so.

She might have been quite content to stay in that apartment forever.

It was her sanctuary, it was her comfort. It was her home.

The balcony was her venture out into the world, a few meager stories above the ground, but still feeling closer to the sky above than to the people below.

Which was absolutely fine by her.

There were things she missed, of course. The hair salon was one.

Her dark roots were beginning to show badly though she tried to remember to be grateful that her hair had not fallen out at all during her ordeal.

So she tried not to notice and show concern for her less than fashionable locks.

But he did catch her glancing sidelong in a mirror one day, one hand self-consciously fingering her darkening strands.

"You know, cara mia, there is a beauty salon just down the street if you so wished to visit there."

She forced a laugh at the absurd consideration even as a low grade terror coursed through her at the thought of venturing out into the world away from the safety of Massimo's walls.

The outside world, the place from which she was well removed.

The place from which she was safe.

And of course, the stairs.

Those stairs.

Ridiculous notion.

But Massimo would not be denied.

He smiled at her, that kind, encouraging smile that warmed her bones and tingled her secret places.

"Come now. It is time to take another step on your lovely legs, Elsa."

That soft, rumbling, Italian voice cajoling her. Those deep, warm eyes. Those gentle hands, rough with work, confident in their commitment.

She wore her yellow dress, her red shoes, and a mask of muted terror upon her face.

As he led her out of the safety of the apartment and onto the tiny landing just before the dingy stairwell.

"Oh Massimo," she gasped, fearful breath catching in her throat as they stood in a narrow space, peeling grey painted walls surrounding them. "It's so high!"

And they were.

The stairs were so high, each step narrower and steeper than the next.

As she gazed at them, they seemed to distort and grow ever more treacherous before her terrified eyes.

The light emitting from the dusty bulbs along the wall was gloomy, much too dim for her to safely navigate past hidden chinks in the wood that would no doubt snag a heel and send her tumbling down, down, down to the landing below where she would come to rest in a broken, bloody heap of flesh and wood.

And the handrails looked decidedly shaky and flimsy as well.

"No, no," she implored desperately, attempting to draw back. "Not today. I'm feeling . . . tired . . . and . . . and . . . it's the perfect weather to lounge on the balcony instead . . ."

He allowed her ramblings to continue for the briefest of moments . . .

"perhaps tomorrow . . . or . . . the day after . . ."

. . . before interrupting with one firm, quieting word.

"Elsa."

She stopped, lips pressed and thin, face pinched with emotion.

"I have not yet allowed you to fall. And I will not now."

His voice was as always, calm, encouraging, and sure.

He was correct of course. She had never fallen under his watch. Under her own perhaps.

But never his.

Her hands clutched his tightly, knuckles white with fear and anxiety.

He maneuvered in front of her and descended the first step backward, facing her.

Letting her see his strength, his stability, his steadfastness.

Letting her see him.

There.

For her.

And so she, teeth gritted and jaw clenched, laid one hand upon the baluster and one hand upon the shoulder of Massimo Dolcefino.

And stepped down, heart pounding thunderously within her chest.

And did not fall.

Massimo smiled at her, as if he had foreseen everything from this moment forward. And simply knew she would succeed in this, and every, endeavor.

In anything. In everything.

After marveling for a moment in her tiny success down the first stair, she, tremulously, took another step.

And another.

And another.

* * *

It had taken an incalculable amount of time, at least in her own mind, to descend that first floor. At the landing, she had stopped and lowered herself, shaking, down onto the step.

And sat, quaking and trembling.

And smiling.

Massimo had knelt before, a hand lightly on each knee and waited for her to recover strength.

And courage.

Until she rose and continued.

On and on, one step after another.

Two flights down.

To the exit door.

And the sidewalk.

And the outside world.

For which, after all her effort and agitation, she was not quite ready.

For at that point, she was well and truly exhausted, her sweat damp body a mass of strained and tense muscles.

And so Massimo, satisfied in her newest efforts, had gathered her up into his arms and carried her back up the stairs and into his apartment.

Drawn her a warm, soothing bath.

Then retired to the balcony while she, stronger than when she had first lay cradled in his comforting arms, attended to her own toiletry duties.

* * *

She was a regular customer at the salon now, having coming alone and under her own steam for nearly two months.

They knew her well.

Or rather, the simple, lovely lady she presented herself to be.

Which suited her just fine.

* * *

**Hey, hey, everybody! **

**Sorry I've been gone so long. Life and other inspirations, and all, you know. **

**But hopefully I'm back to finish the tale of Massimo and Elsa.**

**I've written the ending and it's designed to shred up your heart into little pieces. **

**But hey, not time for that yet. I think there's still a little good to be had here. You in?**

**And not to overshadow the dramas of our doomed lovebirds here, but hubbie 'o mine is having back surgery within the week. If you don't mind, send up a prayer, a flare, or just some positive waves that the surgeons can relieve his chronic pain instead of intensifying it, would you? I would be very appreciative. :)**

**Okay, enough about me and mine now. Let's see who all I've missed out on recently. **

**Thanks to those loyal, loyal reviewers, brigid1318, sophia10, CosettaP, ozz, JJackson1991, Buttercup (is Wesley there too? Please say yes!), pawlikus, GG (thanks for the other reviews for Tate as well), Foreverglfan88, MaverickPaxaPunch, Jurana Keri, and my two mystery guests for leaving words of encouragement and support. You all are fantastic!**

**Thanks to Mango Marionette (that's cool, now I'm hungry and feel like a puppet show!), Nicole1922, and dearjethro for adding your support here as well.**

**Well, anyway, see you again soon for another chapter. :)**


	9. On Cobblestones, In Kitchens

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

On Cobblestones, In Kitchens

* * *

The lady Elsa walked toward the market, her thoughts wandering still, the sun warm on her face. The walk was short enough, only a few blocks, but for her it was a delicious freedom in which she reveled each time she took the journey.

Because it symbolized so much more than a simple errand to the procure food sundries or a jaunt to the beauty shop.

It was a defiance against her fear of people, of the outside world, of being recognized for the freak she was.

And each time she ventured out, she felt stronger, more confident.

She felt free.

She felt whole.

* * *

After conquering the stairs that day, she had fallen into a deep sleep that evening.

And dreamt vividly of the outside world.

Where she walked freely in the sun on the arm of the handsome, loving Massimo Dolcefino. Laughing, talking, smiling.

Where slinking monsters with chainsaw teeth stalked her as she and the Italian with the salt and pepper hair sat at sidestreet tables and indulged in decadent, delicious desserts.

Where she and her lover danced in the drizzling rain and he kissed her deeply, lovingly, passionately, running his hands slowly all over her body as he pressed himself to her.

Where passersby pointed and laughed as she crawled alone along the cobblestone streets, her stumps bleeding and dragging behind her as she searched in vain for her lost wooden legs.

Awakening, she found herself trembling and shaking with terror and whimpering.

The dreams were just dreams.

And Massimo Dolcefino was not her lover.

Yet.

But he did hold her.

And now tightened his protective, benevolent embrace around her, murmuring reassurances into her tangled curls until she was still and calm once more.

She lay awake for quite some time thereafter, watching shadows dance and caper upon the cracked ceiling, listening to her hopes and fears battle for dominance within her.

And sometime in the small hours before the dawn, her striated brown eyes slipped closed and she slept finally without dreams.

And when she awoke the following morning, she had wanted more anything to descend those stairs again.

And step out onto the street, into the world.

Though the notion still terrified her.

* * *

So they did.

Together.

She did not know the street onto which she stepped.

Massimo said they were still in Berlin but she saw no familiar sights.

And that was quite satisfactory enough for her.

Because all those familiarities were ugly to her, a reminder of what she had once been. And what she wished to forget.

So she let them go and took in new landmarks.

The humble area was quiet, relatively, compared to the hustle and bustle of the more traveled streets of the city.

For her here, there was no imposing Reichstag.

But there was a small bakery on the corner from which wafted the delicious smells of fresh baked bread every morning.

There was no historic Brandenburg Gate.

But there was a modest ladies' beauty salon to which Massimo escorted her so that she might smile when she gazed into the mirror.

There was no forbiddingly elegant Charlottenburg Palace.

But there was a small Jewish community mere blocks from Massimo's apartment.

That thought made her frown with concern and worry and glance nervously over her shoulder.

The soldiers, the captains, the men who slunk between the shadows of the seedy, dark hotels she had once worked often exulted of the coming demise of the Jewish vermin as they'd climaxed. As if for them, the thought of the deaths of such low and base beings was an ecstasy on par with the forbidden, twisted, physical pleasure-tortures she visited upon them at their own instances.

Those dark, sordid remembrances made her feel repulsed and ill to revisit so she resolutely sent them away from her.

And focused on the sights and sounds and smells of this, her new environment.

Wondering at the different feel of the cobblestones on which she balanced her gait instead of the smooth hardwood of Massimo's apartment floor.

Relishing in the presence of the tall, dignified, gentleman matching easy stride beside her. His brown suit neat and brown fedora unpretentious upon his head. Smiling quietly as if this was the only thing of importance in his entire existence.

His hand comforting upon hers nestled in the crook of his elbow.

His lightly lined face turned slightly toward hers to catch her newfound freedom and tentative joy.

And on they walked, slowly, a striking, attractive pair beneath the heavy, thick skies of Berlin.

* * *

She had never been a cook.

Growing up in her father's house, there had been a handful of servants charged with cooking the meals, cleaning the house.

And for the female ones, being ruthlessly pursued by the master of the house.

Because he was a man.

And he could.

But Massimo had no servants and no grand abode in which to rein supreme.

Which bothered Elsa not at all.

While she was yet weak, he had warmed broths and thin soups to power and restore her frail body.

As she grew stronger, simple meals of potato and onion to suit her German-trained palate.

And now as she grew more independent and able, she decided to learn to cook for him.

The problem was, she did not know how.

Not exactly.

She had, as a child, curiously observed the cook and her girls taking individual ingredients and deftly combining them to make savory, filling meals at the behest of the ghost thin lady of the house to appease her volatile husband.

Until her father had discovered his little daughter and beaten her away for her supposed desire to be a low and base servant to those in power.

So she did not exactly possess a flair for the culinary arts.

But she was Elsa.

And she could learn to do anything she could put her mind to.

And so she did.

Being dead to the former world and her former self, she had no money of her own.

But Massimo gifted her with German currency without question as she requested it.

And in light of that faith and trust, she resolved to use them as wisely as she could to provide for them both.

Day-old bread from the bakery on the corner. A basket of vegetables from the market down the block. Small portions of precious spices and herbs.

Carefully making Kaese Spaetzle, a simple pasta with onions and cheeses.

Spaetzle dumplings with Sauerkraut, topped with a few coveted handfuls of nearly blackened bacon.

Meat was more expensive than she would have preferred and so she did not frequently splurge for large portions of it, only special occasions.

Massimo was of Italian background, not German.

And Elsa was not entirely a five-star chef.

But he ate her offerings with a smile, always thanking her for efforts.

And she was happy.

Then, shamelessly displaying a quality her father would never have considered baring, thus disproving his revered status as a man, Massimo ventured into the kitchen with her and taught her to make a few simple Italian dishes.

Ribollita, ladled into small bowls and savored over quiet enjoyable conversation.

Cheesy spinach frittatas with precious amounts of ham mixed throughout.

"Massimo, how do you know how to cook?" she inquired in a wondering tone, amazed to discover yet another proficiency to add to that of his eclectic person.

He smiled happily at her alit face, looking slightly amused with her surprise of his domestic capabilities.

"The kitchen is the best place to play as a child on cold, rainy days, cara mia. It is where the _food_ is."

She laughed in delight then and he joined her, his deep, rumbling chuckle mixing pleasantly with hers.

And she loved him.

* * *

And now on this day, the one year anniversary of her gifted legs, she had shyly requested ingredients for a special meal for the evening and Massimo had listed a set of them on a slip of paper.

Placed it into her waiting palm, his face a reserved mask of unexplained mischief and delight, murmuring _spaghetti alla puttanesca_ and _gnocchi di latte._

And kissed her hand softly.

Shivers suddenly running up and down her spine, she had blushed.

She'd had no idea what those words meant, but anything sounded promising when murmured in his sonorous Italian accent.

So now she paid for her items, ignoring the curious stares of the shop owner.

A German lady, attractive and obviously well-to-do, buying her _own_ groceries.

_Italian _groceries, no less.

Suspicious.

Elsa, however, paid no attention at all.

Her face was joyful and lovely as she gathered up her small bag of items, nodded to the inquisitive shop owner.

And walked smoothly, gracefully, out of the store on her shapely, wooden legs.

* * *

**Confession time! I am sooooo not a cook. I'd love to be but I just have no feel for it. So if I committed any culinary or cultural faux pas, I apologize. You can pm me about it and I'll fix it, yeah?**

**And wow, such a great response to the continuation of the story! And such generous well-wishings for my aforementioned life event. You all are lovely, wonderful people. Thank you. The prospective patient says thanks as well. Though he's like 'uh, who are these people again?' Ha, he's not a fanfic-er but he's supportive of it for me because it makes me happy. :)**

**As for the excellent and most appreciated reviews, thanks to Foreverflfan88, Mango Marionette (oh gosh, don't do **_**that**_**, sweetie!), MaverickPaxAPunch, GG, brigid1318 (&amp; positive waves out to you, my dear), and my kind mystery guest. **

**As for your inquiry, GG, I've actually got about 11,000 words already typed up for 'Jimmy, Not Moses'. The first few chapters are ready to go and it is a pleasant mixture of angst, hope, and the human capacity for humorous survival in the face of bleak darkness. I really rather like it so far myself. However, I thought I might stick to updating this one for now. And hey, then I might be able to do daily updates for the new one for a while. How does that sound?**


	10. Stronger Now, Until You're Not

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Stronger Now, Until You're Not

* * *

The sinking sun was warm on her back as she made her way back toward Massimo's apartment.

Her body felt strong and confident, the bag of groceries held easily as she navigated her wooden legs along the cobblestone street.

The building was in sight, just down the block and she remembered suddenly the first time she had left the apartment alone.

She had been terrified and nervous, fearing she would fall.

Fearing she would become lost. All the buildings side by side, might suddenly change appearance and she would forget which one was Massimo's and she would never find her way back to him.

Fearing a pedestrian along the street would see that she was a legless freak and laugh and point. Or glare with revulsion and disgust. Or shout of her disfigurement for all the world to see.

She had glanced up at Massimo's apartment balcony, expecting to see him there, watching over her in her journey.

The modest balcony had been empty.

And so she removed her gaze from up on high, drew in a deep breath, and concentrated on negotiating the cobblestones alone.

Striving to appear calm and confident and unconcerned with the enormity of this, her first independent excursion.

And did not see her guardian angel carpenter, discreetly hidden within the shadows of the door just beyond the balcony.

Watching her with a small, proud smile and gleaming eyes, and a pounding, hopeful heart at her endeavor.

When she returned, heady with the freedom and victory of her accomplishment, he was sitting, turned away from the balcony, calmly pursuing a newspaper.

Closed it across his lap and listened raptly to her excited recounting of her expedition.

She did not think to ask what he had been reading in the paper. Which was good because he would have found himself very hard pressed to answer her at all.

For he had not absorbed a single word the entire time she had been gone.

* * *

Along with cooking, dancing, and walking, Massimo Dolcefino had been teaching her Italian.

She was not very good at it.

But he was very patient.

It had begun simply.

He had picked up an egg while cooking, pronounced it 'ei' in her native German and then once more 'uovo' in Italian.

Interested, she repeated it carefully and said it in her mind over and over again, using the word as frequently as conversation would allow.

And when she would ask for an 'uva' instead of an 'uovo', he would smile and say, "No, cara mia, I will not mix grapes into this, it would make the food drunk. And that is an entirely _different_ meal, not for tonight."

And she would laugh instead of feel embarrassment.

She practiced with him, she practiced alone.

She did not practice with the curious store owner who never failed to watch her from the corner of his eye as she made her purchases.

But she relished it all the same. The language, the feel of it upon her tongue.

Though it sounded clumsy to her ears, Italian words spoken in her German accent, it sent whispering tingles down her spine when she spoke them to him. Especially when Massimo's dark eyes betrayed his deep, visceral reaction to her vocalizations of his native speech.

And she decided then that she would practice an entirely different set of words, with a meaning and message that Massimo could not deny to take to heart.

She practiced in private where only she could hear. She would whisper it to herself as she imagined she would whisper it to him.

She gleaned the words separately from him, at different times, so she could keep her true intent to herself until she was confident and ready.

Words like 'light' and 'love' and 'want'.

* * *

As she grew stronger, he had encouraged her to do more for herself.

So that she could feel confidence and pride. So she could be dependent only on herself.

So that she might be a whole, functional person.

He was always encouraging.

Sometimes it was easy between them.

Sometimes it was not.

"I need my hair brush."

He looked up from his reading. Over the top of his round glasses and gestured.

"It is there, on the table."

She smiled sweetly at him.

"Will you bring it to me, please?"

He smiled back, clearly appreciating the sight of her lovely form, wrapped in a Chinese-cut lounge blouse, silken and peach colored, with a soft mint shaded sash and embroidered ties. The ankle length pants were of the same luxuriant fabric and cut, a real treasure in a land of heavy, grim greyness.

She was lovely.

She was sweet.

She was tired.

He gazed at her for a moment without speaking.

"It is on the table."

The table was ten feet away.

So very far after such a long day.

She took a heavy, deep breath.

"Massimo, I am very tired. Would you please bring me my hair brush?"

His voice was gentle as he returned his gaze to the open text before him.

"Cara mia, you do not need me to get you your hairbrush. Put on your legs and go get it yourself."

Her winning smile faded as she realized that he, quite uncharacteristically, was refusing her.

"Why are you not helping me? Do you not _care_?"

The hurt was evident in her voice and his keen ears picked it up easily, she had no doubt.

"Yes, I care. More than you could ever know."

His voice was infuriatingly mild, his face smooth and expressionless as his attention remained affixed on the print before him.

"And I _am_ helping."

He was not going to get her hairbrush.

She glared at the wrinkles in his forehead until her eyes were tired.

He did not burst into flame or explode into a million tiny pieces.

Even more, he never moved or looked up at all.

Finally Elsa put on her legs, got up, and retrieved her own hairbrush.

To his credit, Massimo Dolcefino did not smile or smirk at all.

Until she left the room.

Then he did.

Just a little.

* * *

And now she did things for herself.

She got her own hairbrush.

She ventured out into the world and procured ingredients for their meals.

She cooked them herself and worked beside Massimo, learning how to create more and more dishes.

She nodded and spoke cordially to people when she was faced with them out in the world.

Such as she was now.

A tall, slender man in a dark suit and matching hat walked down the street toward her.

She raised her eyes to meet his, to make eye contact, as she forced herself to do each time.

So she would not fear the outside world or its inhabitants.

And as she looked into his face, she froze, muscles clenching, breath catching in her seizing lungs.

The bag tilted and a bundle of carrots tipped out onto the sidewalk.

On wooden legs and with numb hands, she knelt to retrieve them, her unblinking eyes affixed on the nightmare that moved before her.

The nightmare in gentleman's clothing, wearing a gentleman's face.

Who cast her, a mere woman, not a second glance.

And moved around her on his way to his destination.

Leaving her there, trembling on the cobblestones.

* * *

**Heh heh, sorry, sweetie, no spoiled brattiness for you, nope. Massimo won't have it. ;)**

**By the way, I love the pajamas she's wearing here. If you want it to see it, google images '1930 American Women's Pajamas at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston'. It should be one of the first images that pops up. I really wish I could wear this, but I'm not built for it. Oh well. **

**And as for her odd encounter? We'll get to that, don't worry.**

**Thanks to brigid1318, GG (throwing out hints, are we? hee hee), Mango Marionette,** **Foreverglfan88,**** and YellowBrickQueen for your wonderful reviews.**


	11. Unforeseen Repercussions

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Unforeseen Repercussions

* * *

The apartment was empty and lonely when Elsa arrived, shaking and trembling.

She frantically stored away the precious food items and then huddled alone on his narrow bed.

When he returned, she was still there.

Which was nothing new.

She reclined there many times, both in sickness and in health.

And when she dreamt of dark things, he dwelt there as well, arms wrapped around her, keeping her safe.

Except for the week she had lived alone.

Alone and bereft of Massimo.

* * *

He had returned from a solitary outing and found her there waiting for him.

"Ah, cara mia," he had greeted her, looking quite pleased. "I have news."

She smiled, her face alighting with anticipation. She was always eager for whatever he had to say in those smooth, dulcet tones.

"I have found you your own residence."

Her smile faded slowly as she took in his words.

"What?"

He nodded.

"An apartment in this building has just become available. Its former lady resident is marrying and no longer has use for it."

She stood, still and stone faced, as he continued on.

"It is, uh, fully furnished and you may move in whenever you wish."

Her words dropped like lead stones around her wooden feet.

"And how shall I _pay_ for such luxury?"

Massimo smiled benevolently.

"No matter. I will provide, cara mia. So that you may enjoy your own space."

She hated him. She loathed him. She despised him.

"How very _magnanimous_ of you, Massimo. I shall begin packing immediately."

Turning, she seized a bag and began cramming things down into it, hardly paying them any mind.

Massimo, of course, noticed her reaction.

"Elsa, what is troubling you? I thought a private space of your own would make you happy."

She shrugged him off, gathering more of her meager affects, nearly in a rage.

"Oh, it _does_, Massimo. It certainly does. This apartment is much too . . ." she flailed momentarily for words until she dug them out of the quagmire of her mind.

". . . crowded and _suffocating_ as of late."

A lie. A complete and utter lie.

She loved it here. She drew comfort and contentment from him and his things.

He, apparently, did not feel the same for her presence.

He wanted her gone.

And so she would go.

She brushed past him, not allowing him to touch her.

"Show me this _divine_ apartment, Massimo. _Now_, please."

He was clearly surprised at her outburst, but her baleful glare shut his mouth and he nodded.

She stepped back, head high, jaw rigid, and allowed him to pass through the doorway first. She held back her small bag so that he would not attempt to take it, act the gentleman now that he'd so cruelly torn her beating heart out of her aching chest.

And followed him down a flight of stairs and to the left, the screaming silence between them cutting like knives.

He reached a doorway and stopped, unlocking it.

And stepped aside as she charged past him into it.

The walls were plain and the floor worn.

It was small, the same size as his, but seemed on first glance bigger for the lack of extra storage shelves and wood-working equipment.

A tiny table stood near the kitchen alcove.

On it was a vase of bright flowers.

The few windows were scrubbed and shiningly clean.

And there was a balcony, looking out onto a quiet street.

The space was very neat and clean.

And empty and drab and lifeless.

Because it was not his.

She turned and glared at him as he waited expectantly for her declaration.

"It's perfect," she lied.

And shut the door in his face.

* * *

She had avoided him for a week, staying carefully out of his paths of movements.

She went to the market. She went to the ladies' salon.

She sat on her very own balcony.

She pretended he did not exist.

She pretended she did not cry.

Then, one evening as she sat and wondered what she could possibly do with her life to escape this cheerless, miserable room, a quiet knock came at the door.

She knew it was him. Just by his knock.

Against her better judgment, she opened the door.

"Hello, Elsa."

He wore dark pants and shoes, a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as was his custom when he was working.

His head was bare, the salt and pepper hair brushed neatly.

But his face looked terrible, as though he had recently not slept well.

And unbeknownst to her, there was a collection of emptied wine bottles awaiting disposal in his upstairs apartment.

Though now he was deathly sober and recently washed.

She backed away from him.

Because she had not smelled his natural musk in days.

And she had missed it so.

He took the opportunity to move a few steps into the room.

She pretended to be uninterested in his arrival.

"What can I do for you, Massimo?"

He looked around, hesitant and unsure for the first time that she had ever seen.

"I, uh, came to check on you."

She nodded, her arms wrapped around her protectively, as if his much missed presence would undo her if she didn't hold herself together.

"Oh, how very gracious of you," she replied dismissively, managing to wave a casual hand. "I am quite fine here, as you can see."

He nodded, uncharacteristically fidgeting with his own hands.

"Good. That is good. I had hoped you would like it here."

He cleared his throat self-consciously as though he did not know the words he would say next.

"Though I did not expect you to disappear so, uh, completely as you did."

She spoke, her tone vehement, her eyes ablaze.

"Oh, so you _expected_ to send me away without _any_ consideration but then _expected_ me return daily to profess my _undying_ gratitude for your _clumsy_ carpentry skills?"

His eyes flinched at her caustic assault, but she pushed on, wanting him to hurt as badly as he had hurt her by forcing her to leave.

"You can have them back if you need attention so _badly_! I'd rather _crawl_ than be subservient to a tyrant!"

Tears were in her eyes now and she despised them.

She did not want to appear weak and womanly.

She wanted to burn him alive with her pain. She wanted him to hurt because she hurt. He wanted him to _suffer_.

Because she had suffered without him and it was all his fault.

_It was not his fault. You did not speak up and give him a reason to keep you. You expected him to guess at your machinations. You expected him to be magical. And he is only a man._

_Yes, men. I hate men. I hate them all._

But she did not hate him.

She loved him.

And it was tearing her apart.

But she could not admit it.

"No, Elsa. That is not-"

She could bear his smooth, surrushing voice no longer.

Nor the sight of the man she had missed so.

"Go now, Massimo. I am busy."

His face was a mask of muted pain.

That she staunchly ignored.

"As you wish, cara mia," he responded quietly, after several unbearable moments. "I will leave you then, to your thoughts."

* * *

Elsa sat now, alone and fearful, awaiting Massimo's return.

But he would not return.

The man, the monster on the street had met up with him.

Offered a congenial smile.

And attacked him, taken him unprepared and unawares, away to some hidden cellar.

And cut off _his_ legs. And then his head.

He was returning now, that chainsaw monster, perhaps on the street at this very moment.

He was coming for her.

He would dismember her, what was left of her. Piece by piece.

He would take days to do it.

And there would be no one to stop him.

No soldier boy to rescue her mutilated corpse.

No Massimo _to_ revive her, bring her back to life with his enduring love and patience.

It was the end.

Elsa was sure of it.

And her body shook as the tears streamed down her face and tortured moans tore through her soul.

* * *

**That's a full blown, out of control PTSD panic attack, I think.**

**A bit disjointed here, I know. But when Elsa's life flashes before her eyes, I'd imagine she does not see the love and successes. I believe she sees the heartache and the mistakes she can't take back. **

**But that's just me. **

**If you're all in a tizzy, don't worry, the next chapter will heal you. :)**

**Thanks to brigid1318, GG (and her clever little hints), and jessicalangefan for posting some great reviews.**

**Thanks also to the complimentary Mango Marrionette and YellowBrickQueen (who likes to throws plot bunnies at my head like popcorn at a movie screen) for speaking up in your pm's.**


	12. Lost and Found

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Lost and Found

* * *

The air was warm, but she was cold, so cold.

Cold and alone.

Alone without Massimo.

Massimo, to protect her, love her, lift her up.

Without him, she was cold and she would never again feel true warmth.

Elsa sat on that narrow bed and rocked.

She rocked and she rocked.

A repetitive motion, mindless and childlike.

She rocked and she rocked.

She waited for Massimo.

She waited for the chainsaw monster.

Because it was all she _could_ do.

Rock and listen to the sound of her own phantom screams.

And feel the shredding of her legs being torn from her all over again.

* * *

The woman with the wooden legs stood rigid and straight, refusing to back down in the face of the man who loved her.

She had told him to go.

No.

_Commanded _it.

And she didn't want him to.

But against everything within her bleeding soul, she remained defiant.

Massimo Dolcefino managed a sad, sick sort of smile before ducking his head slightly.

And beginning to turn away.

And as he did so, Elsa found she was shattering inside. And could not bear, now that it was happening, to watch him go.

Not when she needed him to stay so very badly.

"Massimo."

It was a raspy whisper, quiet and desperate.

He turned his warm, brown eyes to face her.

At his gaze, still loving and gentle, her thin veneer of self-preservation cracked, the walls around her heart crumbled.

"No, please, do not go away. I am sorry for my words. Please, close the door. Close the door and come to me."

She drew her hands away from herself and out toward him. Beckoning, caressing the air where he should be.

He complied slowly. Closing the door, turning the latch.

Moving toward her.

And step by step, every cell in her body cried out to him as he approached. Silently begging, _pleading_ with him to take her in his arms and love her.

Love her with his body as he did every waking moment with his heart.

Love her.

And not go away from her again.

He stopped, inches away from her touch, and his eyes caught hers, shimmering bright and liquid emotion.

The words she had been practicing so carefully as she had once prepared to reveal her very soul to him whispered in her veins.

She was wrapped in a blue and white floral printed cotton dressing gown with sleeves caught right above the elbow and the hem nearly sweeping the floor.

It was a lovely, modest piece that any proper lady would desire to wear.

And now, without breaking eye contact with Massimo, she loosed the sash with one hand and allowed the garment slide off her and crumple unheeded into a pile on the floor.

So that she was now only adorned in a simple, amber-colored silk slip with etchings along the bust and lace edging along the hem. Straps light and weightless over her delicate shoulders.

She spoke carefully in Italian. Stringing together words into phrases into sentences that he had never taught her but she had practiced over and over until she felt confident she could convey her message clearly and without flaw.

"You are the only light I have ever known. You are a light I do not deserve. But a light that I want, deeply. Completely. I love you, Massimo."

Her voice trembled as she spoke and her body felt pulled toward his, like iron to a magnet.

And he responded, tone quiet yet equally heavy with emotion.

Eyes darker and warmer and deeper than ever.

"I love you as well, Elsa. Too much, I think."

Then he gathered her up into his arms.

And kissed her, his lips tender and warm and passionate on hers.

She sank into his embrace, all of her bones melting away from her. Her arms came up around his shoulders, running fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

Their lips parted almost in unison just enough to invite deeper, more fervid kisses between them and a small sound escaped her throat.

Massimo clutched her tighter and she gladly pressed herself against him.

As his lips trailed down to graze the silken flesh of her neck, she felt his hands running slowly down over her curves.

Down to the attachments of her wooden legs. Deftly and smoothly, he freed them of their bonds one at a time so that they sat untethered in their padded grooves.

Then paused. Straightened. And gazed into her eyes, his expression clear and direct.

"This is not about your legs, Elsa. Or your deformity without them. This is about your body. And only your body. And mine."

She nodded her understanding, finding that she no longer had any voice with which to speak.

Then deep desire and need for her crept back his eyes, stronger than she had ever seen and he kissed her again, seeming to openly savor the taste of her.

Her body was heating up to burst to flame, but it was a warm flame, a welcome flame. A flame for which she had waited a long time to indulge.

Then Massimo Dolcefino lifted her up in his strong arms and laid her down on the bed.

And showed Elsa true physical love and passion.

* * *

She had been with many men in many different ways.

Grunting, sweating pigs of men. Slobbering and drooling all over her.

Wiping themselves on their shirttails when they were finished, pulling up their pants back up over themselves. Buckling their belts and turning away, their interest in her forgotten as soon as their lust was satiated.

She had thought that was the way it was.

A tiny speck of pleasure and satisfaction in the midst of all the mindless rutting and swearing into her neck.

And later when she had taken the reins, metaphorically but sometimes literally, as their untouchable dominatrix whore, she had been turned off by the thought of sex completely.

Though sometimes, in the dead of night, she took her own comfort alone in the lonely emptiness of her solitary bed.

When her legs had been taken from her, she had known absolutely that if she lived, she would never be looked upon with desire and admiration by a man again.

Or at least a man not to be found deep within the sordid hotels of the darkness from which she had been lost.

And she would not lower herself to be a freak whore, sought after by men simply because she had no legs.

So Elsa believed she would never be truly loved in all of her life.

She was wrong.

Massimo did not desire her for the twisted pleasure of her deformity or for the hidden mystery between her thighs.

He desired her because he loved her for her.

And had never tried to touch her at all until that night.

And when he did make love to her, it was passionate and all-consuming and she felt warm bouts of ecstasy wave through her body over and over again.

Not for the naughty toys and sexual implements he employed, for he had none.

But for his deep, sincere, intense love for her, finally set free to flow between them.

"Ti amo, Elsa. Ti amo sempre."

_I love you, Elsa. I love you_ _always_.

* * *

"I am sorry for my actions and my words, Massimo."

They lay together, unadorned and peaceful. Warmed by each other's body heat and love.

"I was . . . distraught at the idea you wanted me gone from you."

His fingers lazily tangled themselves in her blond curls, smoothing them away from her forehead as she continued.

"I should have spoken to you calmly, explained myself rather than treating you so," she concluded with sincere regret.

He kissed her hair as she lay with her head on his fuzzy chest.

"I never meant to hurt you, cara mia. I only wanted you to have your freedom again. Even if it meant I was without you."

She huffed lightly in derision.

"Freedom from you is a prison from _life_, Massimo."

He made sound in his throat, some warm, wordless thing and held her tighter.

Then she raised her head and kissed his inviting mouth, savoring the delicious taste of him.

And raised herself up, straddling him, unashamed and fiercely accepting of her shortened legs at that moment.

"I _belong_ with you, Massimo. If you want me, if you will have me."

He grinned up at her, looking joyful and lustful and devilishly charming all at once.

She reached down and seized the back of his neck, pulling him upright to face her.

Inches apart, so he could feel her breath on his flesh.

And see the fire in her eyes.

"Never send me away from you again, Massimo. Please. Never again."

He nodded, his breath becoming heavier and more ragged by the second.

"No, cara mia, never again."

And he wrapped his arms around her. And caught her lips with his own.

* * *

The knob of the door rattled and turned and Elsa jerked, gasping. Fearful and hopeful and helpless.

She thought her heart might rip itself apart within her constricting chest as she watched to see who was on the other side of the barrier.

"Ah, my dearest Elsa . . ."

Massimo, it was Massimo there, standing before her as she tried in vain to hold back the flood of relieved tears.

But she could not.

His voice trailed off as he took in her tear-streaked face as she now lay in the bed in the middle of the early evening, her wooden legs cast carelessly away, quilt drawn tight around her.

He rushed to her now, kneeling at her side, his face pinched with worry for her sudden erratic behavior.

"Elsa, Elsa, what is wrong?"

She shook her head, sobbing helplessly into her trembling hands, completely unhinged and unstrung.

"Cara mia, please, you frighten me. Speak to me. Please, tell me what has happened."

She could not. Her fear was too large for her to escape.

She threw her arms around him, clutching at him wildly in her distress.

For her mind was awash with the sound of a clicking camera reel.

And the revving of a chainsaw.

* * *

**Well, how was that?**

**Loads of different emotions swirling around here, I hope.**

**If you're interested in seeing the dressing gown, google image '1930s Dressing Gown/Seersucker 30s Robe'. And the slip is 'Slip 1930, French, Made of silk'. Both should be the first images that pop up. **

**And will it surprise you to realize that this (chapters 8 up to now) has only been one day of Elsa's life and she's just been flashbacking everything in the middles? She starts off with this great day and all of a sudden Dr. Hans Groper (yeah, it was him, you know it was) walks past her and unknowingly smashes it all to bits. Crazy, huh?**

**Thanks to brigid1318, GG, YellowBrickQueen (no, ask GG, I love plot bunnies, thanks!), Cassalyn, 8Girls8Boys, and Mango Marionette (to whom I apparently gave a stroke, sorry sweetie, better now?) for all your great, ongoing reviews. :)**


	13. Little by Little

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Little by Little

* * *

Elsa was inconsolable for days.

She would not eat, she could not sleep.

She refused to leave the bed but to attend to the most basic of toiletry functions.

She refused to even look at her wooden legs, resorting back to the dusty wheelchair to move about when she must.

Otherwise she lay much as she had when Massimo had first cared for her, bereft of life or care or desire to live on.

She eventually managed to relay her story to him as she lay shivering in his strong arms.

And then she would not speak, would not so much as hear, of revisiting the outside world.

Massimo worried for her and fretted as she sank further and further into abject despondency.

She did not seem to be 'throwing a tantrum' as the Americans would say.

Or vying for attention.

She simply seemed traumatized to her very core by the notion that one of her torturers walked the same streets as she.

Or could look at her and not recognize the woman from whom he had torn the very living flesh.

Massimo Dolcefino saw his love, his light, begin to wither and die again before his very eyes.

A year and some months.

Elsa had come so far during that time, back from the very brink of death.

And now it seemed she had slipped backward and Massimo despaired of ever bringing her back.

And it set a dark seed deep within his soul.

He ruminated, chewed upon it in the darkest corners of his mind.

He would, one day, track down each and every one of them.

And kill them all.

He would do it.

He.

First, he must revive his Elsa back to the life she so desperately deserved. So that she might rise up once more and continue stretching out toward the world.

Then, when she was able and willing to be independent, he would send her out before him to a safe land where she would not be touched.

And he would seek his vengeance for what they had done to her.

He was a very patient man. A woodworker by practice must be.

And so he resolved to wait for the opportune moment to avenge his beloved.

And when that occasion came, he would take his time.

And make the monsters suffer.

Though it could never equal the suffering his beloved had endured.

Or the suffering of watching her relive it over and over again, trapped within her own mind.

For now, he resolved to coerce her to eat something. Anything.

It had been days.

* * *

"We are leaving Berlin, cara mia."

She did not respond. He had carried her out on the balcony, quite against her will, to sit in the sun as he had done when she had first been brought to him.

In hopes to revive her once more.

"I have written to a contact there who has a loft that will be suitable for us."

His efforts seemed to be in vain.

She now lay, motionless and eyes closed in defiance of the world around her.

"We leave in two days."

He knelt by her side, calloused hand stroking her face.

"Elsa, please. Open your eyes and look at me."

She did, just a little, squinting in the grey afternoon light. Her eyes were hollow, empty brown orbs that looked upon a haggard man full of worry and care.

For her.

"Elsa, they will not be there. Those monsters. You will be free. You will be safe."

Her eyes filled with tears and her face pinched. Her lips trembled as she pressed them together in an effort to keep from breaking apart.

"How do you know?"

It was a question for which he had no answer.

* * *

Munich was different than Berlin.

It was still a city, a German city.

But it was smaller, populated with less citizens.

It was a heavily Nazified area but Massimo took no notice of this.

The Nazis were everywhere, there was no escaping the growing machine of Adolf Hitler without leaving the continent completely.

And though Massimo had the idea in the back of his mind, the notion of achieving the absolute freedom he sought for Elsa, he knew she must be healed enough in mind to undertake it first.

And so, to Munich.

With Elsa, his carpentry accoutrements, and his growing hunger for revenge.

* * *

The change in scenery helped Elsa as Massimo had hoped that it would.

She gradually began to revive, little by little.

One morning, she asked for a mirror and brush to attend to her hair.

Wishing to tread slowly, Massimo brought them to her without attempting to force her to rise on her own to get them.

On a sunny afternoon, she asked if there was a balcony in their new dwelling.

There was not.

One evening when hunger visited her, she hesitantly requested a bowl of ribolita and he provided it for her.

Finally, she once again attached her wooden legs and used them to move about the apartment.

She began to live again, little by little.

Massimo remained vigilant over her.

As he always had done.

* * *

She walked on the arm of her carpenter, her savior, her lover, Massimo Dolcefino.

They traveled the city of Munich, talking quietly, observing the majestic architecture.

The imposing Isartor City Gate.

Elsa had never been brought to her knees in fear and terror there.

The stunning Altes Rathaus.

Her tender flesh had never been chewed up by a chainsaw beneath its magnificent clock tower.

The grand Nymphenburg Palace.

She had never swallowed back her grimace of distaste and disgust as she made men suffer dark, forbidden delights within its opulent rooms.

The city held lovely new sights for them to admire and appreciate.

But there were also Nazis.

Everywhere.

Marching stiffly, guns against their shoulders at the ready, faces blank and empty of humanity.

Mindless drones at the beck and call and ultimate control of the fanatical, oddly mustached Adolf Hitler.

And it unsettled her.

Not because she particularly cared for the Jews or the gypsies or the gays.

But because the grim presence of the Nazis was a constant, dark reminder of the growing threat of war and destruction.

And the oppressive air that hung over them in a land once rich with history and pride.

* * *

**Our Massimo is becoming more haunted now by Elsa's setback. And we know where that path leads, don't we? *sighs***

**But hey, another light few chapters before that, yes? :)**

**Thanks to brigid1318, YellowBrickQueen, Mango Marionette, and GG (I _love_ that you made that connection and understood what I have been trying to convey in relation to Elsa's psyche, you're fantastic!) for your stellar reviews.**


	14. Hope and Strings

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Hope and Strings

* * *

As Elsa began to find her way again, there was another damaged body that needed the talented, sure hands of a simple carpenter.

A man who had lost an arm just below the elbow in a factory accident.

A man who needed hope.

A man who needed compassion.

A man who needed a chance.

A man who needed Massimo Dolcefino.

And when her gentle Italian spoke to her of it, she saw a most wonderful opportunity.

An opportunity to be a part of something good, something outside of herself.

A way to pass on the grace of new limbs and new hope as they had been passed on to her.

"Massimo, allow me to come with you."

He considered it, then shook his head.

"No, cara mia. The man is in pain and may not be in his right mind to entertain a lady."

Her temper flared.

"I do not wish to be _entertained_ like some mindless, flighty female only concerned with herself! I want to _help_!"

He removed his round frame glasses and gazed at her with renewed interest and attention.

She continued speaking, her voice rising with passion and fire.

"I want to _help_ this person, like you helped me! I want to be a _part_ of it!"

She paused.

She had no skills, no understanding of the procedures or techniques with which to grant this faceless stranger new hope and possibility.

She knew it. Massimo knew it.

"I can . . ." she stammered, pleading quieter now, remembering to control her fire. "I can . . . comfort him, prepare him for you. Show him my legs so that he will see there is hope."

Massimo was gently smiling at her and she suddenly felt very self-conscious after her sudden outburst.

"Very well, then, cara mia. If that is what you wish."

She nodded urgently.

"I do."

* * *

And so they went.

The factory worker lived in a poor section of Berlin with his four children and heavily pregnant wife. His elderly mother lived with them as well.

All living in a two room dwelling no bigger than Massimo's small space.

And now they had no means of employment.

The eldest boy, only eleven years old, had taken his father's place on the assembly line.

He was young and strong yet.

But the factory conditions and miserly income would soon rob him of that joy and light.

But he went, the good, strong son.

And provided for his family.

While his father stayed home in shame.

And now they welcomed Massimo and Elsa into their lowly surroundings.

The grim faced man sitting on ancient, nearly broken down furniture.

Two thin wisps of children playing on the floor.

And a solemn girl who stayed close to her worried mother as if protecting her from any more grief and tragedy.

The mother's belly was ripe with child.

And yet there was no joy left in her face.

But Elsa, having been rescued herself by the gifted, generous man who called himself a simple carpenter, felt at her core that Massimo could return the possibility to their lives.

And so she was his steadfast believer and their hope.

* * *

"We have no money to offer you, herr. We are close to starving."

Massimo opened his bag, seeming unconcerned with the pitiful declaration.

"No matter on that. We shall see first what may be done."

Elsa offered a flask to the man and he took it from her tentatively.

"Drink," she directed gently. "He must inspect the stump and this will help numb your pain."

The man took a swig, grimacing at the liquid fire within.

She recapped the flask and handed it back to the carpenter.

Who traded her a large syringe of penicillin, murmuring simple instructions.

The children on the floor stopped playing and stared in growing fear at her as she cautiously approached their father.

"What is that, fraulein?" he inquired with a trace of anxiety in his tone.

She tried to reassure him with confident, kind eyes.

"Penicillin. It will keep you from getting an infection and losing the rest of your arm. Or your life."

She injected the amber liquid at the elbow of the unmangled arm, drawing a hiss of concern from the pregnant wife.

Returned the instrument to the bag and moved aside to allow Massimo to begin his inspection.

As she stood and watched the carpenter inspect the ragged stump and converse with its owner, she felt a tug on her yellow dress.

It was one of the smaller children.

"Is that man going to help my papa?"

Elsa nodded, fascinated by the tiny creature in her frayed poka dot frock.

"How can you be sure?"

_What mature words to come from such a young child_, Elsa mused as she knelt carefully beside the child onto the floor.

"Because he helped me," she relayed gently.

The child immediately looked toward Elsa's hands, which were undeniably flesh and blood. And back into Elsa's dark eyes, ripe with skepticism.

Elsa smiled again and reached for her left leg, unrolling the stocking just enough to display the rich wood that made up her lower limbs.

The child gasped in surprise, her entire small face an 'o' of disbelief.

She reached out, the tactile child, toward the oddity.

And Elsa watched the child touch her wooden shin.

And she did, caressing the smooth wooden with her tiny fingers.

Then drew back with wonder upon her narrow face to gaze once more at this strange lady.

"You are like Pinocchio!" she whispered in awe.

A child's murmur can be louder and carry further than an actor's stage whisper.

And of course her mother heard her.

"Greta! Do not say such things to our guests!"

Elsa shook her head kindly at the fretting mother and waved her hand dismissively.

"No, it's quite alright, Frau. She is only honest, yes?"

Then Elsa raised her arms up just a little to the child and acted as though to inspect them closely before returning to her former position.

"Alas, no, my dear child. I am no Pinocchio," she whispered conspiratorially. "For there are no strings on me."

And the child stared without words for a moment before reaching out, plucking a thin string from the lady's skirt and showing it to her.

Elsa scoffed gently, winking at her as she took the fabric from her tiny hand.

"Well," she amended lightly, "perhaps just one."

And looked up to the mother for consent.

The mother hesitated, then nodded with a ghost of a smile.

And Elsa stroked the child's blond braids.

As Massimo hid his smile and focused on planning the creation of a man's new arm.

* * *

**I thought a bit of light fluff would do nicely after so much heavy stuff lately. Hope you enjoy! :)**

**Thanks to MaverickPaxAPunch**,** Mango Marionette, and my mystery guest for your wonderful, wonderful reviews. **

**Figure we'll wrap this up by sometime next week. But Massimo and Elsa still have a little more to tell. **

**As for my husband, my caring mystery guest, he's having surgery Friday. And he's a little nervous. But I'll keep you guys updated. Our anesthesiologist yesterday visually and auditorially resembled George Takei in the most soothing way I can describe. They're even going to play spa music during surgery and recovery so he'll wake up calmer. How cool is _that_?!**


	15. Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men

* * *

"One day soon, when the land is at peace, I will take you away with me to Italy. We can lose ourselves in the beauty and simplicity of the countryside."

The street along the outdoor cafe was lightly traveled with pedestrians and bicycle riders moving from destination to destination. She nibbled on her fruit and cheese as he sipped coffee across from her.

She smiled happily at him, enjoying the fantasy of leaving behind dismal, heavy Germany and traveling abroad to lighter, brighter lands.

"And what will we do there, Massimo?"

He put down his coffee cup and reached across the table to take her delicate hand in his bigger one.

"I will take your hands in mine in the spring and marry you beneath the orange blossoms."

She stared at him, a crippled, healing woman to a strong and whole man.

"You would . . . marry me?"

He smiled gently.

"It would be the greatest joy of my life, cara mia."

Her eyes glowed. She could not find her voice for several minutes.

"And then what? Would we travel?"

He nodded, relinquishing her hand and returning amicably to his coffee.

"Wherever you wish to go. Carpenters are needed in all corners of the world, I would imagine."

She leaned closer, her attractive face eager and excited.

"America? Could we go to America?"

He smiled, gently, his dark eyes warm and inviting.

"Yes, cara mia. America."

America. It was a land of dreams, for anybody who dreamt of lights and stardom.

And freedom.

America. With Massimo.

It was a beautiful dream.

She decided to enjoy it a while longer.

And her fruit.

* * *

Some of Massimo's possessions had been damaged during the move from Berlin to Munich.

"Massimo, why do you keep these old things?" she inquired one day. "They are ragged and worn."

He glanced up from his work with the factory worker's wooden arm. It had movable fingers and even the semblance of a wedding ring upon the third finger of the hand.

"The material possessions of this world are not built to last forever, cara mia."

She scoffed lightly, her negative tendencies not entirely vanquished by his light.

"Then what does last?"

His brown eyes were deeper and warmer than ever until she thought she might fall into them.

"Love. Faithfulness. Devotion."

He smiled.

"Those are the things that endure, Elsa. _Those_ are the things that _matter_."

She felt captured, entranced.

"And those things you have from me. Eternally, cara mia."

And she let her tears fall.

But they were beginning to be happy tears once more.

And so he did not fret. Simply gazed at her and watched the smile spread across her lovely face.

Though in his mind's eye, he could still see the blood that had painted it the first day she had lain upon his table.

* * *

'I've got you . . . under my skin . . .'

She sang quietly to herself as she moved about, preparing a simple evening meal for her and her carpenter.

'I've got you . . . deep in the heart of me . . .'

Some American song to which she was learning the words.

'So deep in my heart . . . you're really a part of me . . .'

Sometimes she sang aloud, sometimes she hummed.

'I've got you . . . under my skin . . .'

Mostly she did it when she thought nobody was around to hear.

'I tried so hard . . . not to give in . . .'

But Massimo could hear. Massimo always heard.

"I believe that tune is originally sung by a man, my dear Elsa."

She tossed a playful smirk in his direction, making him ghost a smile.

"Bah," she scoffed lightly over her shoulder. "Why should _men_ get all the good songs?"

He smirked and came to her then, kissing her neck. Making her shiver.

"So that you can make them great."

She turned in his arms and kissed his inviting lips, savoring his touch, his taste.

Savoring his presence.

Then drawing back just a little, he murmured words that would have more of a lasting effect than either of them could realize at that moment.

"You should practice singing more, cara mia. Your voice could be quite lovely."

And she smiled and blushed and said nothing.

And found herself singing more often thereafter.

* * *

Massimo read the paper, among his other daily rituals.

He was also very observant of the world around him, though due to his casual demeanor, he sometimes appeared otherwise.

And so it was that he forsaw the doom and downfall of the world long before Elsa took the time to make herself aware of it.

And he saw the way the world was turning.

It was not good.

The chancellor of Germany, Paul von Hindenburg, placed himself in league with Adolf Hitler.

So deeply in fact that upon Hindenburg's death two years prior, the small, mustached Nazi fanatic Hitler managed to procure for himself the positions of both president and chancellor, bounding the two together.

To became de Furor.

Thus bringing the world a step closer to being crushed under his rolling Nazi machine of death.

Massimo saw. And felt the darkness growing.

And now, this very year, the Nazis had already marched on and taken control of first Nuremburg, then the Rhineland, thus effectively securing their holdings in Germany.

And began tightening the noose of all who did not adhere to their ideal standards and stringent systems and policies.

Sending droves and droves of civilians away to 'workcamps'.

Never to be heard from or seen again.

As if they'd never existed at all.

Massimo had noticed all this with growing disquiet.

And knew they were standing on limited time.

War would soon consume the land and its people.

And if they did not move quickly, they would be trapped and plowed under by the destruction that followed.

"We must leave Germany, cara mia. It will no longer be safe here with Hitler so strongly on the move. The Americans and the British will not stand for it. We must get out before we are trapped here."

She held no great love for the country of her birth, having fallen so far since its era of greatness. Only for the man to whom she now found herself considering grimly.

"Where? Where will we go, Massimo?"

His face was grim and set.

"Across the Atlantic. To America. You will be safe there."

* * *

**The song Elsa's singing there is 'I've Got You Under My Skin' sung by . . . Cole Porter. **

**Catch the Freak Show reference? *winks***

**And the chapter title is a reference to the book 'Of Mice of Men' by John Steinbeck, published in 1937, a year before Elsa leaves Germany.**

**Thanks to brigid1318, Mango Marionette, and my guest Gracie (I'll see what I can do, thanks for the plot bunny, sweetie) for your lovely reviews, you wonderful readers, you. :)**


	16. In Paradiso

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

In Paradiso

* * *

The bright, warm sun shone down from the blue, cottonball cloud sky. A lilting breeze caressed the faces of those who basked in the afternoon rays.

She dug her gloved hands into the earth, churning carefully to prepare the soil as much as she could for the flowers soon to be nestled within its embrace.

"I believe you have a visitor en route, cara mia."

Massimo's voice floated to her on zephyrs of light spring air.

She shifted her body atop her wooden legs to turn and look toward the sweeping willow tree behind her.

And see a beautiful little girl with dark pigtail braids tottering across the lawn in her direction.

Elsa quickly stripped off her pink gardening gloves and held out her hands invitingly.

"Come to Mama, my precious one."

The child sank her into arms, yawning widely, warm and smelling of grass and sunshine.

"I fell asleep under the tree, Mama," she said, gesturing vaguely.

Elsa kissed her forehead, rocking her gently.

"I _know_, mein liebchen. I watched a little grey squirrel come up and nuzzle your hand while you were sleep-_ing_."

The child sat up straighter and looked at her mother in awakening delight.

"Did it really?"

Elsa smiled, feeling sweet and a bit mischievous.

"Yes, sweet Lili," her mother affirmed.

The child smiled, glancing back over at the tree.

Elsa wanted to see the wonder. So she continued.

"And then a tiny elf _popped_ up out of the ground and rode away on its back."

The child's dark eyes sparkled, even as she refuted the fanciful claim.

"Mama, no, it did not!"

Elsa arranged a very genuine expression on her face.

"Oh, yes, yes it did, little flower, it did indeed."

The child considered this for a moment, gifting her mother with the childish wonder she had been so desiring to see. And then laid her head back down on her mother's comforting bosom and stuck a thumb in her mouth.

"I wonder where they went," she mumbled around the thumb.

Elsa reached down and gently removed the appendage from her daughter's bow mouth.

"I do not know, my sweet," she murmured, stroking the child's hair softly. "Perhaps off to tell Father Christmas what a good girl you are being."

The four year old faced her mother again, expression earnest and disapproving.

"Mama! It is _May_! Father Christmas does not come until _December_!"

Elsa pinched her daughter's nose gently.

"Well, no time like the present, eh?"

This seemed to give the little girl in her arms 'food for thought' as the Americans would say. She relaxed once more within her mother's arms.

Elsa continued to hold her, enjoying the warmth of the sun and her precious daughter's presence.

And together they observed the scene across the few yards to Massimo's outdoor carpentry area.

He stood with a completed rocking horse before him, sanding it carefully.

A little boy the same size as the girl in Elsa's arm stood next to him, one hand atop his father's. Learning the motions, learning the craft.

And Massimo spoke, murmuring gently to his young son.

"Very good, Leo, very good. You see, the surface must be polished and smooth, not one splinter or scratch to mar its perfection."

The child's voice responded obediently to his father.

"Yes, Papa."

His father smiled and bent to kiss his son on the head. The boy grinned up at him, lopsidedly like his father, and in a very boyish manner, reached up, ruffling up his hair where the kiss had been.

"You can wipe off the wet, but never the love!" called out his identical twin sister across the way in her mother's arms.

Then quieter to her mother, "That's what Mama says."

Elsa smiled and kissed her forehead.

"Just right, Lili."

And just as her brother, the little one playfully swiped it away.

Only to get another one to replace it.

She giggled at the repeated kisses, a high-pitched sound that resonated to her parents like the pure joy of angels.

Elsa squeezed her just a little and let her go.

"Let's go see how it's coming along, little flower."

The child bounced up, fully awake, and ran to her father.

"Papa! Papa! Catch me high!"

Massimo turned and with a smile, held out his arms to the child running toward him, his arms outstretched to her.

Elsa watched him with awe.

This man, this wonderful man who had saved her from death. Who had given her new legs. Who had brought her back from all her darkness and despair time and again.

Who had taken her away from the growing war of Germany and brought her to America.

Who was her husband these six years and the father of her beautiful children.

There was a little more salt than pepper in his hair now, more lines upon his caring face.

And she thought he had never been more handsome to her than he was now.

Now, as he lifted his daughter high. Spinning her around. And then bringing her protectively to his chest, kissing her on her head as she giggled.

Elsa approached her family with a little smile on her face.

Leo saw his sister getting more attention than he and decided that just would not do.

"Me next, Papa! Me next!"

His father gladly acquiesced, gently setting down his daughter and catching hold of his son to lift. And spin. And cradle. And kiss.

Setting the boy down on the ground, Massimo stretched his back, groaning just a little.

"I fear the children are growing too big for me, cara mia," he teased gently as she approached.

She laughed lightly.

"Yes, our neighbor, Mrs. Thomas, suggested we 'put a number two wash tub over them to keep them little'."

She paused and shrugged.

"But I have no idea what that means."

They smiled at each other in the sun and embraced for a kiss.

"Ewww, Leo. They are doing it again!" Lili squealed to her brother beside her.

He giggled with a hand over his mouth.

Massimo broke the demure kiss, though he remained with an arm comfortably around his wife.

"But my sweet ones, I _must_ show your mother how much I love her," he chided them gently with a smile. "Every day."

They giggled and turned away to admire the rocking horse.

She could have never predicted it. She, Elsa, a first time mother at the age of forty five.

When she'd first suspected it, she thought it must be the change of life.

But when the doctor had announced she was with child, it was as if something deep within her had turned over and she had been stricken with a severe case of unbridled joy and bliss.

She had experienced nearly no problems during the entire pregnancy.

Massimo had battled her voracious hunger by introducing her to even more sumptuous Italian dishes.

To which she had countered by only eating half of the generous portions he doled out.

Most of the time.

Her labor had come two weeks early. Quick and painful as is the way of life.

And she, _they_, had been rewarded with twins.

A boy first, then a girl.

Leonardo and Liliana.

Perfect beautiful twins.

The doctor had looked at the slightly aged first time parents and declared it a miracle.

Massimo had kissed the heads of each member of his newly expanded family and replied in a murmur.

"Not the first."

And they had both cried happy tears.

And found parenthood taxing.

And exhausting.

And so very fulfilling.

And now here they were, out in the sun, admiring the rocking horse Massimo had crafted with his young son.

It was a dark, rich color. Solid and well built. It would serve for many years. Perhaps become a family heirloom.

Massimo had even carved eyes, ears, a snout, hooves, a mane, and even tail hairs into the fine wood.

There was a saddle and bridle carved into the grain, the seat curved slightly to accommodate the comfort of a small child.

"Oh, Massimo!" Elsa gasped. "It's beautiful!"

Leo put a hand proudly on the head of the galloping steed.

"I helped Papa. We did it together."

She spread her hands out to the glory of the wooden charger.

"Yes, mein junge, you did. And it is perfection!"

He practically glowed, reached forward to peek her cheek, and then clambered onto the horse for a ride.

"Whoo-hooo! I'm a cowboy!"

Elsa chuckled, trading amused looks with her carpenter husband.

Their sweet little boy. Of Italian and German descent. Who could speak both languages fluently _and_ English with only the slightest of accents.

Was now a roping tossin', bronco ridin' cowboy.

"Papa, _I_ want to be a cowboy!" Little Lili piped up.

Massimo smiled worshipfully at her as Elsa gently corrected.

"Cow_girl_, little flower."

The child did not respond to her mother, only continuing to gaze beseechingly up at her father.

"You can't be _anything_ on this horse," Leo crowed, rocking wildly on his valiant mount. "Because _I'm_ on it!"

Lili immediately pouted.

"That's not fair! Papa! Mama!"

Elsa was about to tell her precious little girl that her sweet brother would share the rocking horse and allow her a turn in a few mnutes.

But Massimo resolved the situation by placing a gentle hand upon his daughter's head.

"I think I have just the solution for you, Lili."

And disappeared into his shop.

Only to return.

With another rocking horse.

Massimo had begun to just make them one to share.

But true to his doting nature when it came to his children, he had gone ahead and made two.

Little Lili squealed with delight and pulled her father's sleeve to plant a loud, sweet smack on his permanently scruffy cheek.

And launch herself onto the second, delicately carved rocking horse.

She began to rock next to her brother, a giant grin painting her face.

Elsa shook her head gently at her husband.

"You will spoil them, Massimo, with too much love," she gently reprimanded.

He removed his round glasses and began cleaning them, a satisfied smile upon his face as he gazed at his lovely little children.

"Not with love, cara mia. Only with wooden horses."

Lili reached her hand out and Leo took it with his own.

They rocked together, hands clasped and laughing.

And their parents wrapped their arms around each other and enjoyed the sight of them.

Their little miracle children.

* * *

Elsa awoke from her dream as the morning rays of sunlight touched her face through the dusty windows of their sparse Munich dwelling.

She opened her eyes and saw her simple carpenter taking his first sip of morning coffee.

She lay still and quiet a moment longer, wrapped in her bedsheets, wooden legs on the floor beside her.

A woman without legs.

Who was happy.

* * *

**This chapter is for everyone who wanted to see a happily ever after for Massimo and Elsa. See, I'm not totally heartless. ;)**

**Most grateful thanks to YellowBrickQueen, Foreverglfan88, and Casslayn, Buttercup, and GG for your fantastic reviews.**

**See you tomorrow for another chapter. I plan to continue updating daily and complete our tale on Tuesday morning.**


	17. Across the Ocean

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Across the Ocean

* * *

"You _must_ go, Elsa. You must. The ship is leaving soon."

They stood there, together. Under a heavy grey sky, being jostled by the crowds of people boarding the steamship.

The sound of its horn rang out loud and long, alerting everyone within earshot that it was readying itself for departure.

And time was running out for Elsa to board.

"Please, cara mia," Massimo begged gently. "I will follow you in a month's time. I will send a letter of my arrival date and the name of the vessel. Watch the ship schedules in the papers."

She was shaking her head violently.

It had only been a few days since Massimo had announced Germany was no longer safe enough for them to remain.

In that time, he had procured funds for Elsa and a ticket on a steamship to New York.

For her only.

"No!" Elsa protested desperately. "I do not wish to be separated from you! How will we find each other again?!"

Together, they were supposed to go _together_. Not her to America and him to remain.

"Please, cara mia. You must go. Please. Go now. I will follow you. Please, Elsa, have faith in this."

He kissed her forehead, lips trembling upon her flesh.

"Go, Elsa, please go."

She clutched his arm, unwilling still to let him go.

"I _love_ you, Massimo."

He smiled then, gazing at her, seeming to drink her in all he could.

"And I love you, Elsa. Always remember I love you."

And gently pushed her toward the ship.

With tears threatening to fall and ruin her carefully applied makeup, Elsa turned, and clutching her small bundle of belongings, walked away.

And boarded the ship.

Without Massimo Dolcefino.

Once aboard, she headed straight for the deck, dragging her bundle along behind her through the crowds. Struggling out onto deck under the heavy grey sky, she pushed her way to the siderail.

Looking for her carpenter with the salt and pepper hair amid the waving, cheering crowds.

But could not find him anywhere.

For, unbeknownst to her, he had already departed.

Toward his vengeance.

Massimo Dolcefino had utilized the last of his money to procure her boarding pass onto the ship and scant money for her arrival in New York.

To assure her freedom and safety.

He planned to take what he needed from the men he was going to kill.

And when they were all dead and in pieces, he would follow her to America.

With a clear conscience and an open heart to his Elsa.

In the meantime, there were boarding houses in New York for immigrants. They provided shelter, food, and starting employments for those new to America.

She would be safe and free.

And that was all that mattered.

Her wellbeing.

And his vengeance.

* * *

The trip across the Atlantic lasted nearly two weeks.

One the fair weather days, Elsa resided on the open air deck as much as possible.

Altering between facing the distant, unknown land of America and the looking back to Massimo, as if she could still see him miles and miles away across the ocean.

On rainy, colder days when she was forced below to the crowded decks, she thought she might go stir crazy from boredom and claustrophobia.

Many people were sick with the motions of the sea.

She, mostly gratefully, was not. Though it did take concentration and effort to maneuver her unfeeling wooden legs smoothly on the undulating ocean waves.

Though she performed no physical labor at all, Elsa found the trip exhausting.

And nights proved little escape. The women with which she shared her congested, dirty accommodations sobbed in the long stretches of the night.

And, not understanding their foreign tongues, Elsa was unsure of how to help them.

It was very lonely, very tiresome, and very depressing.

Elsa pressed her lips together, steeled her eyes, and resolved not to complain or weep.

* * *

One day as she was arranging her meager belongings within her tiny cabin, she heard men and women chattering excitedly as they rushed past her door.

She poked her head out into the narrow hall and saw they were heading up on deck, very nearly running.

She followed them up, her curiosity aroused.

And gazing in the direction of all the turned heads, saw it in the distance, cutting through the lifting fog.

The fabled Statue of Liberty.

Tall and strong.

An arm upholding a torch of light.

America. They had finally arrived.

People were cheering and shouting and clapping their hands, faces alight with joy and exhilaration.

A few couples were forgetting their inhibitions and embracing, kissing with elation.

Elsa found herself smiling as well.

And wishing fervently that Massimo were at her side so they could be one of those.

* * *

The first class passengers unloaded and set foot onto American soil almost immediately, making their way out into their new world without hindrance or concern.

Elsa was not one of these.

Neither was she a second class passenger.

But a steerage traveler.

And a woman.

Traveling alone.

And thus considered among the most suspiciously and shrewdly of all.

And finally, _finally_, after hours and hours, she was ushered onto a small ferry heading toward a small, crowded spot of land called Ellis Island.

It was just as cramped and stifling on the smaller marine vessel as on the larger ship.

And if Elsa had seen the cattle cars the Jews were even now being loaded onto in Europe, she might have panicked and jumped ship then and there, attempting to swim to freedom.

Some people were excited and chattering rapidly. Others seemed nearly paralyzed with fear and confusion.

As for Elsa, she clutched her small traveling bundle to her and stayed as quiet and still as possible.

Craning her neck anxiously for the next big step towards America.

* * *

**And so now Elsa and Massimo are separated, unfortunately. By an entire ocean. **

**And we all know where Massimo's headed. But what about Elsa?**

**Thanks to YellowBrickQueen, jessicalangefan, foreverglfan88, brigid1318, and GG for the ongoing reviews.**

**I'll be updating the last several chapters daily until the final chapter on Wednesday. **

**So I hope you'll stick around until then. :)**


	18. Cattle Call

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Cattle Call

* * *

A guard had shoved a piece of paper in her hand mere moments before.

743.

Now holding it clutched in one damp, trembling hand, Elsa joined the line of immigrants shuffling in a seemingly never-ending line.

She looked at the number on her paper over and over again.

743.

It meant nothing at all.

It had no relevance to her.

But at that moment, it was all she was.

And she was afraid.

But she thought of Massimo and his unwavering confidence and belief in her and she steeled herself.

And held her head high.

"This way! This way, please! Step quickly! Let's go!"

Shouting.

In English.

The uniformed officers were shouting at them.

Hundreds of immigrants, tired and weary from the long and tiresome voyage.

Elsa understood the shouting men because she had been listening to as much radio English as possible and learning from Massimo as well.

But what about those other poor souls who were simply hearing loud voices and seeing stern, unforgiving faces?

They were scared and unsure, it was obvious by their walled expressions. The way they clung to crying, wide-eyed children and shuffled along with their heads down.

They were herded like so much cattle, dragging and carrying all their worldly possessions, toward a large red brick building.

The Baggage Room.

Once there, their worldly belongings, all they owned, were taken from them and left on the floor in heaps to be gathered up again later.

So that those tired, weary men and women and children could begin the hours long inspection process.

Some confused souls sought to hold tight to their bags and boxes.

And were detained peacefully by the armed guards.

Which encouraged others to drop their possessions as quickly as possible upon entry.

Off to one side of the room was a stand selling sandwiches and cups of drinks.

How very cruel for people who have not the funds for extra food after such a long, tiresome journey.

Those passengers choose to adhere to protocol were then directed upstairs to the Registry Room for processing.

And so went Elsa.

* * *

She was exhausted. And frustrated.

And had only barely begun the processing procedure.

The stairs were steep and tall.

Men in uniforms stood at intervals, closely observing the people as they slowly ascended.

Those who stumbled or appeared to struggle for breathe were pulled aside for medical inspection.

And Elsa was tired.

Her body weary of lifting Massimo's finely crafted wooden legs.

But she had heard that those who seemed sickly or weak would be detained further.

And possibly sent back across the Atlantic.

And though part of her desired to flee back to the familiarity of Germany, she did not know how to find Massimo.

And that was what made her keep climbing that eternal staircase.

* * *

The room was enormous, tall and vast.

So aptly named the Great Hall.

And filled with lines and lines of tired, worn men, women, and children shambling between long rows of metal rails.

Red, white, and blue flags of the United States hung along the walls, the only bursts of color in the grey existence.

The clamor was deafening, so many voices in so many languages all mixed together and amplified by the architecture of the massive space.

And Elsa was developing a headache.

She was so very grateful to see the sitting benches. To reach them and gain reprieve.

They were hard and creaky and uncomfortable.

And divine.

* * *

"Visa? Affidavit of support?"

Elsa started as the voice cut through her haze.

A man in uniform was talking to her.

"Ma'am? Speak English?"

She looked up, a little disorientated after so long in a haze of limbo.

He was younger than she, his eyes blue and slightly reddened by a long day's work.

"English? Speak English?"

She nodded, clearing her throat to speak. But he didn't give her the time.

"Do you have a visa?"

She shook her head.

"An affidavit of support?"

Again a silent answer in the negative.

He sighed and pointed.

"That line, please."

And so she went.

* * *

"Name?"

Another official, sitting at a long counter, papers before him.

And she, weak with hunger and exhaustion, her lovely blond curls wilting, perched on a stool before him.

Suddenly blank and lost in the world of too many words and loud noises.

"Name, please?"

The man looked up, impatient with her lack of response.

"Elsa," she managed. "My name is Elsa."

He narrowed his eyes at her tremulous response and even more so at her heavy German accent.

"Last name?"

Last name, last name.

It had been so long since she'd had a last name.

_And it was never mine in the first place, was it? It was my father's._

Dolcefino, she could say. Dolcefino, yes. She and Massimo were to be married when he arrived in a month's time, why not take the plunge now and start fresh?

Elsa Dolcefino. Lovely.

A smile flitted across her face momentarily before dying even as it was born.

Massimo was not here. She could not take his name until he spoke it.

And so now she was alone and alienated.

Again.

"Last _name_, ma'am?"

The man was growing ever more impatient with her lack of response. They would soon believe she was trying to formulate lies, which she was.

And then she would be put back on the boat and sent home.

Their plans would be ruined and they would be forever separated by the war, the world's evil.

And her own stupidity.

Her in this alien world.

An alien, alone.

Without friend or ally.

"Mars," she stated suddenly, the word more of an exhalation of breathe than a declaration. "My name is Elsa Mars."

The man wrote down the information.

"And you are here . . . alone?"

_Massimo. Massimo should be here._

He was not.

"Yes," she replied stiffly, her jaw set and rigid.

The man frowned and scratched once more upon the paper with his stub of pencil.

Elsa felt she had answered the question wrong.

And it would cost her.

The man waved her on to the next station.

And Elsa Mars continued her lonely journey into the new world into which Massimo Dolcefino had sent her.

Alone.

* * *

Elsa felt even more like a piece of livestock as she shuffled along the medical line.

Stern-faced men holding chalk eyeballed each worn, fatigued human blankly staring ahead.

Occasionally a uniformed man would reach out and mark the clothing of an immigrant.

Then further ahead in a break in the rails people with chalk marks on their clothing were removed from line for further inspection.

Elsa's heart was pounding in her throat and she thought she might pitch forward onto the hard concrete floor in her anxiety and stress.

But she reached the end of the line unmarked and vastly relieved.

* * *

Another process worker. Another stool. Another set of questions.

And Elsa was tired.

Irritated.

Frustrated.

But she held her head high and spoke with confidence.

"Name?"

_Jean Harlow._

"Elsa Mars."

He raised an eyebrow at the odd moniker.

"Where were you born?"

_As if it isn't obvious._

"Germany."

_Nazi defector, that is now what is in his mind._

"Are you married?"

_In my heart, yes, oh yes._

"No."

"Are you here alone?"

_Well, do _you_ see my handsome Italian hovering protectively around me?_

"Yes."

"What is your occupation?"

_Assistant to a brilliant carpenter._

"Singer."

"Have you ever been convicted of a crime?"

_By the men who cut off my legs._

"No."

"What is your destination?"

_Away from you. _

"New York."

And on went the questions.

And the answers.

And on and on and on.

* * *

The Isle of Hope had become the Isle of Tears for so many.

Poor physical or mental health.

Failure of legal inspection.

A woman or young child alone without contact or family.

Elsa was the third.

And so at the top of another long staircase well-named the Staircase of Separation, Elsa Mars was directed down the center aisle.

And so she must stay.

Government officials feared women alone without family would come to depend upon the charity of those more fortunate or simply live in poverty.

And such was not permissible for the country of the United States of America.

And so she stayed.

They gave her a bed in a long, open dormitory filled with rows and rows of them.

They provided her with daily portions of food and drink.

Her, along with so many other women.

She would receive a hearing within the month.

And so she was resigned to wait and wonder at her fate.

And Massimo's.

* * *

**Kind of ironic that we are driving home today (finally) and picking up our son just when Elsa's been taken away from everything she knows. Bummer for her, hurrah for us :D**

**In my humble opinion, the similiarities between the Ellis Island and Nazi concentration camp processing procedures cannot be denied. **

**However, thankfully, not **_**too**_** similar. **

**So thanks to sophia10, brigid1318, GG, foreverglfan88, Grace, and Cassalyn for continuing your encouragement of this story! :)**

**And as far as another Elsa/Massimo tale, I will perhaps write a character study or two (maybe their thoughts during their reunions near the end of Freak Show? I _love_ writing character studies), but as far as another full blown multi-chapter, I doubt it. And if you don't like that, hey, you could always write your own. *nudge, nudge***

**Only two chapters left!**


	19. The Wilting Heart

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

The Wilting Heart

* * *

She haunted the ship schedules daily as well as the post office near the Stairs of Separation.

She paced, she worried, she wondered.

Except for the week she had so cruelly abandoned him in her misguided anger, Elsa had not been without the daily company of Massimo Dolcefino in two years.

Before this life changing journey.

She had grown to depend on his kind, dark eyes. His quiet, encouraging smiles. His soothing dulcet tones.

She had grown to love him deeply and depend on him.

For the continuation of her being, both physical _and_ emotional.

And now, he was no longer by her side.

And she missed him so.

She would hear whispers of his voice and turn quickly to look behind her.

Only to find the phantom surrushes resided only within her mind.

Her aching heart would send her wafts of his natural musk and she would breathe him in again.

But he would not be there.

She would feel his hands, his lips, his body caressing her, pressing to her.

Only to awaken from her dreams alone.

She kept it all inside, spoke to no one at all of him.

And thought she would go mad with loneliness and heartbreaking despair.

But she continued on.

With the tang of salt air in her nose and the sounds of other wandering souls filling her ears.

And waiting, waiting, waiting for her release from Ellis Island.

And waiting, waiting, waiting for her new life in America to begin.

And waiting, waiting, waiting for Massimo Dolcefino to come to her.

But he never did.

* * *

Eventually, in an effort to escape her own monotony and growing despair, she reached out to those less able and less strong than she.

She sat with the lonely ones as they wept and wailed.

Shared her food with the expectant mothers provided meager portions by caregivers charged to feed multitudes.

Comforted the crying children with stories and brushed the hair of young girls waiting alone.

Sang gently to the old women as they lay sick in the infirmary.

Hid the secret of her wooden legs until her stumps were sore and aching.

Locked away her dark past from everyone, fearing to be labeled a contemptible freak whore.

She waited at the Kissing Post for hours upon hours each time a ship from across the Atlantic made port.

She carefully applied her makeup on these days. Curled her hair to perfection.

And wore her red dress.

The dress she wanted him to see her in after so long away.

Rich red adorned with swirling, white floral designs.

Cap sleeves.

Gathered, modest bosom leading down to a slim waist encircled with a narrow belt that flowed with a full skirt down just past her knees.

And, of course, the red shoes Massimo had first given her.

And she waited.

Day after day.

And Massimo Dolcefino did not come.

Nor did he send any sort of communication whatsoever.

And yet she continued to wait.

And hope.

* * *

"He not come."

A heavily accented voice. Hungarian, perhaps. Or maybe of Slavic origin.

Elsa looked around at the uninvited intrusion irritably.

She sat in the area of the Kissing Post as she did every time a ship from Europe was docked in New York Harbor.

And saw the gypsy.

A decidedly round woman wrapped thickly in generous skirts and flowing blouses.

She had a few gold teeth and long, dark hair.

Shocking eyes of light green irises striated with yellow and rimmed with blue.

"Excuse me?"

The woman wrapped her multi-colored shawl tighter around her and spoke again.

"No, he not come. You wait every day. He not come."

Elsa's stomach of cheese and bread quavered at the pronouncement of this stranger who had spoken the truth she had been adamantly shunning for weeks.

"You wait long enough. Time to leave this place of waiting and staying. Time to go."

Elsa stared at this woman, her brown eyes unexpectedly filling with tears.

She tried to speak calmly, with confidence.

"No, he _is_ coming. He is just . . . delayed."

She did not entirely succeed.

The gypsy woman with the hypnotizing eyes shook her head kindly.

"If he good man, he _want_ you leave here. Want you _live_."

Elsa's lips trembled until she pressed them resolutely together. Gathered herself together with enormous effort.

And spoke.

"He _is_ a good man. And he _is_ coming."

A voice which had lain dormant up until this point now awoke in her head.

And began to whisper her silent doubtings.

Is_ he coming? _

_Or was this_ _voyage just an excuse to finally rid himself of me?_

_No, no, Massimo cares and loves me. He truly does. _

_Did something happen to him? _

_Did _they_ find him?_

_Is he gone now?_

What would she do if he never appeared? She could not stay here forever. Hundreds, sometimes thousands, of new immigrants arrived every day.

She would soon be discharged out into the world. And then she would be on her own.

Where was she to go? What was she to do?

Immigrant boarding houses.

Massimo had spoken to her of those.

They were safe places for single immigrant women, providing food and shelter.

And then what?

Her accent alone made her a target for those Americans who feared the Nazi march on the world.

So she would be hard pressed to procure respectable employment for herself.

What would she do?

A job as a cleaning woman for more well-to-do ladies? Mopping up their messes? Scrubbing their floors?

No, even if her pride would allow her such a low and base work, her legs would not allow her to bend and toil for hours upon hours and days upon days.

A freak prostitute, whoring herself out in the back alleys of New York for little pay, much degradation, and high risk of disease?

No.

Whether or not Massimo ever came for her (though he would, she _knew_ he would), she must be independent and capable of taking care of herself.

But how?

What could she do?

What was she?

She was a woman.

Just a woman.

What could she do?

She could cook.

A little.

She could clean.

Some.

What did she _want_?

She wanted Massimo.

To be with him.

His wife, his companion, his partner.

Care for him. Love him.

Assist him with his carpentry work as she had done so gladly in Munich.

But if he was gone, if he never came for her, what then would she do?

What had she been _before_ Massimo?

A dominatrix whore to sick, sadistic men.

No. That was over. Never again.

Before that, before she had gotten lost in that, what had she been? What had she _aspired_ to be?

A performer.

An actor on stage, a singer.

Someone to be admired, desired, emulated.

Her, on stage.

That's what she had always wanted to be.

But how would she do that in America?

And should she, a cripple, even _try_?

Finally, she looked up.

Apparently only a few seconds had passed as she turned everything over in her mind. Seeking answers. Seeking direction. Seeking a hope she could not find.

The gypsy woman was still there.

Still gently smiling.

Still speaking truths she could not possibly know.

"He not come. You not wait. Time to go now. Time to live."

Elsa floundered within herself, still wanting to believe her carpenter savior was just around the corner.

"But . . . what will I do?" she asked this woman whom she had never met before. "Where will I go?"

The woman patted her ample chest.

"With me. Come. We go. Boston. Carnival. Family."

Boston. What was Boston? Where was Boston?

"But what will I _do_ in Boston?" Elsa asked, feeling small and childish to this mysterious creature.

The woman smiled, flashing a gold tooth.

"Sing? Dance?"

She flipped a card from nowhere in front of Elsa's very eyes and vanished it in mid-air. Only to appear it again in her other hand.

"Magic?"

Elsa sat, frozen in her spot, her resolve to wait crumbling, collapsing in on itself.

Massimo. Massimo was still out there. Somewhere beyond her reach.

Massimo was there.

But not here.

She was alone.

"Come. We go," the lady urged, holding out her hand in proffered friendship.

Elsa Mars slowly rose to her wooden legs, scouring the crowd once more for her beloved Italian .

Who was nowhere in sight.

And then, she went.

Slowly, sadly.

With love dying in her wilting heart and darkness growing in the pit of her soul once more.

She went.

* * *

**Well, there you have it, gentle readers. Elsa is gone. I guess she couldn't wait forever. And she did say in 'Freak Show' that she fell in with gypsies and went to a carnival type thing in Boston, right?**

**Now we know that by this time, Massimo has been caught by Hans Groper and has no way of getting to Elsa or making contact with her. But _she_ does not know that and he has become her whole world. **

**Only to have it evaporate before her like mist.**

**Wonder what that does to a person? **

**Eventually turns one into Elsa Mars of 'Fraulein Elsa's Cabinet of Curiosities', I'd say. Unfulfilled and always wanting. But unable to face her true feelings or how she came to be. In her case anyway. **

**Or you just make your own judgments, yeah? ;)**

**Oh and the gypsy's eyes? Mine since birth. I couldn't help it. *shrugs sheepishly***

**So thanks to brigid1318, foreverglfan88, my mystery guest for these great reviews!**

**See you tomorrow for the final chapter. **

**Bring your snuggies and your blankies. This one's gonna hurt, I won't lie.**


	20. Darkness Prevails

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But this isn't about the freak show. This is a love story.

In the Absence of Light, Darkness Prevails

Darkness Prevails

* * *

My Dearest Elsa,

I am alive though it would be a lie to say that I am well.

I have been searching for you for these many months and years. Only now have found you, tucked away in a traveling carnival of sorts.

Fraulein Elsa's Cabinet of Curiosities, how very extraordinary. A previous version of myself would yearn to experience the show and behold you finally singing and performing before appreciative audiences as you always dreamt of doing. But alas, I dare not without consent from you. Perhaps you will understand why when you have completed your consideration of this letter.

I suppose that after all of my carefully laid plans and promises made so many years ago, I must explain my absence from you for so very long. Though you may hate me when my tale is concluded.

Your torturers, the men who stole your fleshly legs from you, are now dead and buried in the ground, Elsa. You shall fear them no more. I tracked them all down, one by one, and killed them. For their abuse and cruelty of you. It was not unbearably challenging, I must confess. They were all considered fine and upstanding men of political and societal stature and position, easy to track down and dispatch. And so they are now and forever gone from this mortal coil, never to return.

All save for one. The last man, who shall remain nameless lest you, my vengeful Elsa, seek to track him down yourself. As I stalked him, he caught me unawares and took my attempted murder of him as quite a personal slight. He shot me and held me captive for many months.

He was a Nazi doctor and an avid scientist, surely one of the cruelest of the Devil's own minions. I must confess I almost did not survive his torments of me. But he did not seek to end my life, no, only to extend it to further his experiments of the limits of human capacity for pain and suffering.

My only salvation from such a dark and dreadful misery and eventual death came in the form of an SS general who wished for me to build him bookshelves to contain his growing collection of stolen tomes. If not for my skills as a humble carpenter, I fear I would languish still in the windowless cells deep in the fetid, hidden recesses of my captor's laboratory.

My heart would sorrow to write of this to you, but I suspect that you may not wish to see or hear from me after my next revelation. And so I must reveal all to you lest you refuse contact with me hereafter. And I sorely wish to not lead you off in a fool's paradise of unachievable dreams and fruitless hopes. Of that I still have a semblance of human compassion.

My heart, once so full of life and love and belief has dried up and crumpled to ash in the face of my sufferings, Elsa. A sunny day which once held so much potential and promise for me now yields naught but absence of night. My mind, once so alight with hope and possibility for what we two could become, now feels empty and hollow of naught but survival and breath.

I can no longer love, Elsa. Nor hate. Nor grieve. Nor hope. Nor wonder. Nor find any joy at all in this life.

All my humanity, I believe, is gone, seared away by the horrors I endured under the doctor who held me captive and punished my body so mercilessly.

I do not know if or when I might be able to feel love again. Or any humanity at all, my once dearest Elsa. But it would be a grievous sin indeed, to pretend so otherwise until that time may come.

And so I now fear that I am no longer the man you desire and need. I fear a reunion between us would only bring you even more sorrow and pain. And whatever else I am, I am no monster to make you suffer so.

I wish you to continue to go out into the world without me, Elsa, and live your life in the sun and the warmth of possibility and hope. Do the good unto others that I myself can no longer fathom the strength to do.

However, if you wish to see me still, my face and hands are as of now unmarked and unchanged but for the passage of time. I enclose my address below so that you may consider and make your own determinations, as you have so willfully done in all the time I have been graced to know you.

If I still had the capacity for prayers and petitions up to the God who never saw fit to grant me reprieve from my pain and torment until it was too late to save my soul, I would pray that this grim missive finds you well and that you may live and love in the sun.

With all that is left of my ashen heart and soul, I remain

Massimo

* * *

**Such a cruel and fatalistic ending to such a romantic tale, I know. **

**But we know what Massimo said when he was relaying his story to Jimmy. **

**And perhaps now we understand a little of why Elsa is so unhappy when we see her in Freak Show. And maybe we can understand why she cries that time after singing onstage? Maybe every time she performs, a secret part of her is hoping to finally see him in the crowd? And shatters apart when it ends and he is not there? Fifteen years of that would damage anyone's psyche.**

**Because as we have already established, in the absence of light, darkness prevails. **

**Tomorrow I will finish their FS story in a new, much shorter fic called 'Everything That Has a Beginning, Has an End'. Not exactly an original title (Matrix fans), but fitting nonetheless. And if you're too burned out, that's okay too. So am I. But I gotta give them all they've earned, yeah?**

**Many, many, _many_ thanks to my gracious reviewers brigid1318, 8girls8boys, GG (thank you, sweetie), and jessicalangefan. **

**And also many sincere thanks to the silent readers of this story as well.**

**I hope you all lead happier and more fulfilled lives than our tragic pair here. **

**Thanks for reading and be well. :)**


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